No. 4.      COLUMBIAN SERIES.      Sept. 27, 1892.

                            PRICE 50 CENTS.




 THE HOUSE

                                  —OF—

                                                            FIVE GABLES.


                                   BY

                          MARY JOHNSON HOLMES.


                               NEW YORK:
                            HURST & COMPANY.
                           134 GRAND STREET.
                                 1892.

   Issued Quarterly.—Entered at New York Post Office as second class
                                matter.
                         PRICE $2.00 PER ANNUM.

[Illustration]




                               THE HOUSE
                                  —OF—
                              FIVE GABLES.


                                   BY
                          MARY JOHNSON HOLMES,

                               AUTHOR OF
         “ASHES,” “SINS OF THE FATHERS,” “A FAIR PURITAN,” ETC.


                               NEW YORK:
                           HURST AND COMPANY,
                              PUBLISHERS,
                                 1892.




                            COPYRIGHT, 1892,
                                   BY
                          MARY JOHNSON HOLMES.


                 THE ARGYLE PRESS, BOOK MANUFACTURERS,
                       265–267 CHERRY ST., N. Y.




                       THE HOUSE OF FIVE GABLES.




                            BOOK THE FIRST.




                               CHAPTER I.


Many years ago there stood on a high bluff over-looking the island which
is now the site of a portion of Wheeling, West Virginia, a house known
far and near as the house of five gables. It was built of sand-stone and
brick; the gables were of wood; it was not a thing of beauty, and a
beholder seeing it for the first time, was sure to pause and exclaim at
its rare ugliness, which enchained the eye; and its quaint irregular
shape appealed in a way to one’s feelings, much as a crippled, mishapen
being might have done. It had not always been thus. It began life as a
modest story-and-a-half cottage, and for several years could only boast
of two gables, but with a change of owners there came a change of
architecture also, until if old Sir Roger Willing, the original builder,
could have risen from his grave he would have found it difficult to have
discovered a foot of his own handiwork.

Old Sir Roger’s great-grandfather was one of the hundred settlers sent
from England by Sir Thomas Gates in the year 1607, and settled in
Jamestown; and rumor whispered that it was he who bought twenty African
negroes from a Dutch man-of-war, and so introduced negro slavery into
Virginia in the year 1619.

Sir Roger himself was not long behind Governor Spotswood in crossing the
Blue Ridge, and forming a home in what, after more than a century,
became West Virginia.

There had always been a Roger Willing from that time until now. An elder
son, who kept the old ancestral home, adding to it odd corners as the
fancy took him, and dying bequeathed it to another Roger, with the
solemn injunction never to sell or part with it come what might. There
had been some good Rogers, and there had been some very, very bad ones.
Strange tales were wont to be whispered of the goings on inside the old
gray walls under the reign of “Jolly Prince Roger,” a grandson of old
Roger the fourth. That was in 1763, when Benjamin Harrison was Governor,
and when Wheeling was known as Fort Henry. Young “Prince Roger” had just
come into his kingdom as it were, meaning the old stone house now
boasting three gables and numberless added corners; many acres of
tobacco, and a prolific bank account. Roger’s father had been a man with
one idea; to make money. The idea how to spend it he had never
cultivated, therefore Roger upon coming into possession of what his
father had so carefully hoarded, speedily set to work to make ducks and
drakes of it, and he gathered about him plenty of profligate assistants,
who helped him turn night into day, and day into night, until their wild
orgies became the talk for miles around.

A beautiful slave girl was installed housekeeper, and she ruled with a
high hand. She ordered a new wing to be added to the old house, and
another gable. Stained glass, a great rarity in those days, was brought
from foreign parts, and fitted as windows in the new gable. Costly
carpets, and tapestries of foreign make covered the floors and walls.
Rare treasures costing fabulous prices, were scattered lavishly about
the rooms; unique chandeliers of brass fishes filled with sperm oil, the
light issuing from the fishes’ mouths, were wonders to the class of
visitors who worshipped at Bella’s shrine. Here she reigned queen for
ten years, until one morning, Roger woke up to find himself at the end
of his resources. All his ready money squandered. The old house
mortgaged, and a fair prospect of being without a place to lay his head
ere many months should pass. He was dazed, bewildered, as the truth
became a certainty, and he wandered over the fair lands which any day
might be snatched from him, bemoaning his fate, and cursing it as well.
His companions in prosperity had all fled at the first hint of
adversity, as fair weather friends have a habit of doing, and he had no
one to advise him in his hour of trouble.

The man to whom the property was mortgaged called occasionally, “to
gloat”—as Roger said—“over the prospect of in time possessing the fair
estate.”

“But by heavens! he never _shall_ be master here. Never! Not if I have
to sell my soul to the devil to get the money,” was Roger’s cry. He went
to Bella for suggestions as to the best course to pursue, but she merely
laughed at him.

“Do as I do,” she told him. “Don’t bother your head over nothing. It
don’t pay. It only makes you wrinkled and old, years before your time.
Sell the old rattletrap. It ain’t mortgaged for near what its worth, and
the money you have left over will keep us for a few years anyhow.”

“I can’t sell it,” Roger answered. “More’s the pity. I’m bound by word
to the dead.”

“Bound by your fiddlesticks!” laughed Bella scornfully. “What will the
dead ever know or care about it; you _are_ a soft head; ha, ha, ha!”

Roger went out leaving Bella still laughing. He was disgusted, weary.
Yes, almost tired of life, and he walked around the grounds to a little
lake which he had made for Bella’s pleasure. The water was deep enough
to drown one, if one chose to just lie down without a struggle, and it
would be an easy way to end it all; but something whispered that such a
mode of escape would be cowardly, and with all his faults, the one of
cowardice had never been laid to Roger Willing.

For days his mind continued in a state bordering on lunacy. Then like a
ray of sunlight, there came to him a letter from across the seas. It was
from a great uncle, his grandfather’s brother, who had not taken kindly
to American soil, and had gone to the land of his ancestors, there to
build up a colossal fortune. He had only one heir, a son, who dying left
a daughter, Mary Willing. This child had now arrived at a marrying age.
There was no one good enough for her in all England. Many letters had
travelled between Roger’s father and Mary’s. They had had it in their
minds to unite the English sovereign with the American dollar; but Mary
was at that time too young, and Roger’s father had died ere he could
express his desires to his son. Now, Grandpa Willing being Mary’s
guardian, had thought it about time to broach the subject to his
brother’s grandson. If he was heart free would he come over to old
England, and form Mary’s acquaintance? She had sixty thousand pounds in
her own right, and when her old grandfather died, her dot would be
considerably increased.

Roger stared at the letter, and could hardly realize his own good
fortune. Going to England in those days could not be called a pleasure
trip. It meant many weeks of rough tossing on angry billows. Of a
possible loss of life, but Roger gave not one thought to the dangers or
privations attendant to his journey. He looked forward to the golden
goal at the end, and cared not for what came between. He went to the
richest man in Fort Henry and showed him the letter, asking him if he
would advance a thousand dollars on a second mortgage, for he felt
confident of winning his cousin’s affections. The man consented, and
Roger made ready for his journey in great glee. To Bella he said, “that
if he wanted to save his home he must go abroad,” which was true enough.

“Give me and my child our freedom papers,” cried Bella, excitedly. “You
always said you would, but you’ve put it off as you do everything, and
if you are lost at sea, and never come back, we shall be sold to the
Lord knows who.”

“All right, honey, I’ll tend to it sure before I go,” replied Roger,
carelessly, and as a matter of course he forgot all about it, the time
came, and he sailed away with Bella’s loud wailing ringing in his ears.

He reached England in safety, and found his cousin all that her
grandfather had pictured her; bright, rosy-cheeked, and if she lacked
beauty, still she was good to look upon, and the golden sovereigns at
her command, gave a wonderful luster to her otherwise commonplace
appearance.

Roger’s wooing was short, but most satisfactory to all concerned. Mary
adored her handsome cousin. He was so very different from any young man
she had ever known. His rather free manners attracted and repelled her
at the same time; but she fell more deeply in love every day, so that
Roger’s proposal was hardly to be called one, for he just said: “Mary,
when shall we be married?” While she answered, meekly: “Whenever you
please, Roger.”

“The sooner the better then,” was his reply. “It’s a great nuisance this
getting married. It should be abolished.”

Grandpa Willing was more than satisfied with Roger’s account of his
possessions. He made him describe over and over the old house with its
many rooms and queer angles. Roger told of the goodly bank account which
his father left, also of the vast fields of tobacco, but he forgot to
mention the heavy mortgage resting upon the home; and the old man rubbed
his hands gleefully at the wedding which he had brought about so
skillfully.

It is not necessary to linger over the brief betrothal, or the happy
bridal, for at least to one of the participants, the wedding morning was
the happiest of her hitherto uneventful life, and just before she was
led by a bevy of laughing bridesmaids to meet the bridegroom, she
devoutly knelt in the privacy of her chamber, and thanked God for the
treasure about to become hers; for the gift of an honest man’s love, and
she asked for a divine blessing to rest on her beloved from that time
forth.

As for Roger, he drew on his gloves with an air of ennui, and
confidentially remarked to his mirror, that if it were not for those
golden sovereigns beckoning him on, he would flunk at the last moment,
for the very thought of marriage was distasteful to him; and at the
altar, as the clergyman asked in solemn tones, “Wilt thou have this
woman to be thy lawful wedded wife?” it was not Mary whom he saw
standing by his side, but one of duskier hue, who raised her appealing
eyes to his and asked that justice be done her and hers. He heard again
that despairing cry which had been the last sound to fall upon his ears
as he had driven from his home, and it is no wonder that he cast a wild
glance behind him, ere his trembling lips whispered faintly, “I do.” But
no voice denouncing him interrupted the ceremony, which bound a
trusting, God-fearing woman, to an unscrupulous atheist, and Roger drew
a deep breath of relief as he found himself outside the church, away
from the nodding, gaping crowd, who to his excited fancy all seemed to
point jeeringly at him; and although it was a bitter cold day, great
drops of moisture stood on his face, which Mary in true wifely fashion
brushed away with her dainty cobweb handkerchief; thereby taking upon
herself a bondage which was never broken, until death claimed her
husband.

Roger’s true character was soon revealed to Mary. The honeymoon had
hardly waned ere her idol lay shattered at her feet. He had decided to
do Paris, and one or two gambling places before he started for America,
and Mary followed where ere her lord and master led. She spent one
delightful week in Paris, driving, walking, dining with Roger, and then,
the heavenly blue of her sky was suddenly overcast by a dark threatening
cloud which never entirely lifted through all her life.

She remembered that day so well in after years. She had been more gay
than usual, singing ridiculous little nursery songs all to herself, as
she dressed in evening costume, so as to be ready the moment Roger came
in. Roger did not like to be kept waiting “dear fellow,” and they were
going to the opera of which Mary was passionately fond. She donned a
pretty blue silk flounced to the waist, each flounce edged with
priceless lace. Roger had admired it above all her other dresses, so of
course none other must be worn. After dressing she sat down to await his
coming, and she waited long. The moments grew into hours, and still he
did not come. Supper time came and passed. The hour on which they should
have been starting for the opera was struck off saucily, by the little
clock on the mantle, yet he was absent, and Mary walked the floor,
wringing her hands in wild despair, imagining all sorts of horrors. Now
she saw his dear form torn and bleeding, being pulled from beneath the
feet of prancing steeds; again, she was viewing his lifeless body as it
was tenderly placed at her feet by strangers, and it was with a cry of
almost gladness, that just as the dawn was breaking she heard muffled
voices at the door. “Thank God! the uncertainty was over. Better
anything than this awful suspense which was driving her mad.” She
thought she heard a laugh. “Ah! then he was not dead. No person, however
heartless, could laugh if death were near them.” She tremblingly slid
back the bolt.

“Stand him up against the door,” she heard a voice in French say.

“What are you talking about?” another voice answered. “He can’t stand.
He’s too far gone for that.”

Mary groaned, and dreading what her eyes might behold, she opened the
door just as Roger called feebly: “Shay, you fel—felis, don’ go off an’
leave a fel like this; hic, I’m sick, awful sick, hic, so I am.”

Mary saw two men going down the dimly-lighted hall, and realizing her
inability to lift or drag the burly form of her husband inside, she
called, indignantly: “Come back and assist me. Are you devoid of all
human feeling, that you desert a fellow-being in distress?”

The men turned at her call, and she saw that one was the night porter,
while the other a stranger, was in full evening dress. He lifted his hat
respectfully, and stooped over Roger, shaking him vigorously.

“Arouse yourself,” he said in French.

“Speak United States,” muttered Roger, “I don’t unstan’ beastly
la’guage. United States only la’guage in whole world, whole world, do
you hear? An’ I’ll fight er’body who says taint.”

Both men laughed, while Mary wrung her hands, crying, “Oh, what has
happened him?” Then remembering that perhaps neither of these men could
understand English, she turned to the porter and said in French: “Tell
me what has happened to Monsieur Willing. Has he become suddenly
insane?”

The porter looked at the stranger and smiled. “He knows,” he answered.

Mary turned inquiringly to the stranger, who again bowed profoundly.
“Monsieur is not ill, Madame. Only a little indisposed. He has been
spending the night among a jolly lot of fellows. He lost rather heavily
at cards, and naturally took a few glasses too much. He will be all
right by morning.”

“A few glasses too much,” echoed Mary, starting back. “Do you mean to
infer that he is drunk?”

The stranger bowed his head, saying softly: “That word might be applied
to his condition outside polite society. We seldom use so harsh an
appelation.”

“Oh!” said Mary, looking with disgust at the form at her feet, “thank
you for being so considerate of my feelings. It seems I have much to
learn in regard to polite _French_ society. We English call things by
their proper names. Take him inside and then go.”

When Mary was left alone with her husband who had fallen into a drunken
slumber, she sat and gazed at him long and earnestly. Her thoughts were
far from being pleasant ones. “So this is the end of my happy marriage
which I foolishly thought could never be anything but happy. A sweet
dream rudely broken in one short week. What have I done that I should be
so harshly punished? Tenderly cherished by a fond, adoring father, and
taught by him to abhor vice in any form; and after his death surrounded
by the protecting love of my dear grandfather, how can I cope with this
horror which has so suddenly been thrust upon me. Can I go to
grandfather with my trouble? Ah, no. He is old, and the knowledge of my
unhappiness might send him to his grave. I must adopt some severe plan
by which to cure my husband of this evil which will so soon wreck his
life, and my own, if he continues. Yes, that is the better plan, but how
shall I begin? Is not my woman’s wit equal to this emergency? It should
be.”

She sat for some few moments in deep thought. Then she arose with an air
of determination, saying: “The remedy is severe, but if it only effects
a cure I can rejoice.”

She bent over the sleeping man and pinched him several times, calling
him by name. He slept on. The only difference being that he snored more
musically than before. Mary smiled. “He will never know,” she whispered.
Then stepping to his dressing room, she brought forth his shaving
materials. She had often watched him shave, and thought it an easy
matter to handle a razor. She did not think so now when, after lathering
well his head, she attempted to remove the hair without cutting the
scalp. She stopped in despair after three unsuccessful attempts. Then
with renewed energy which challenged defeat, she began again, and in a
short time, though it could not be called a work of art, Roger’s head
was shorn of its curly black locks, and Mary viewed her work with
satisfaction. She called a servant and despatched him for a pound of
mustard, and when she received it she was not long in making several
plasters, and applying them to various parts of Roger’s body where their
superior qualities would be appreciated the most. Then she sat down to
await the result. She had not changed her pretty dress. It was nearly
ruined, but she did not give a thought to that. She wanted Roger to see
her still in evening dress.

Presently a groan followed by another still louder told that her patient
was awakening. “Water, water,” he moaned, “for God’s sake give me water!
I’m burning to death. Am I in hell? Mary, Mary, where are you? Where am
I? What has happened me?”

Mary knelt by his side. “Oh Roger! dear Roger, how thankful I am to hear
you speak once more. You have been very, very ill.”

“Then I _am_ on earth,” he said feebly, trying to raise his head from
the pillow so as to gaze fully upon the familiar objects scattered
about. “I thought I’d got ’em again, or something. Suffering Job, what
am I in, a bed of fire? Talk of torments. There is no worse torment than
this.”

He uttered another cry which rang through the room.

Mary turned her face to hide her smiles, and said sweetly: “They are
only mustard plasters dear husband. Don’t revile them. They have saved
your life. They are grandfather’s great cure all’s for every ill and——”

“Damn grandfather and his plasters!” broke in Roger, savagely grinding
his teeth. “Take ’em off. Do you hear me? Take ’em off.”

Mary was willing to obey, as by this time a good blister from each one
was sure to have matured, but she moderately took her time. “Not until
you beg my pardon for swearing at grandfather. You have good cause to
bless him, for if it had not been for his remedy you would surely have
died.”

“Father Isaac and all the patriarchs! will you stop your silly twaddle,
and remove these rags, or by heaven! when they do come off I’ll clap ’em
on to you.”

Mary knew that she was safe, for on both palms was a generous supply of
mustard.

“Say you are sorry for what you said, then I will.”

“I won’t, not if I die for it. I’ll ring for a servant.” He leaped from
the couch only to fall back with a groan. More mustard on the soles of
his feet. “Do you want to kill me?” he yelled.

“Far from it Roger, darling. I only want to make you well.”

“Thank you,” he sneered, “you are succeeding admirably. Oh, Mary, Mary,
for the love of heaven, will you take them off?”

Mary looked at him.

“I’m sorry, oh yes, I’m sorry I said that awful word. I’m so sorry, that
if I had your grandfather here I’d make him eat the whole business.”

Mary smiled, and slowly undid the bandages from his feet. “You have said
you are sorry, dear. That is sufficient without emphasizing it. I know
how you feel. Grandfather is always irritable after using them.”

Roger muttered something which sounded suspiciously like a repetition of
his fond speech on grandfather, but Mary wisely closed her ears, and as
the last bandage was removed, Roger gave a huge sigh of relief, and
said: “Now, tell me the meaning of this idiotic performance, and why you
have tortured me with that old man’s infernal remedy; but hold on,
there’s one on my head yet, you didn’t take off.”

“Oh no, dear, I didn’t put any on your head.”

“Much obliged for your thoughtfulness. Something is the matter, though.
It feels as if it had been scalped.”

“I only shaved it, dear Roger. That’s all.”

“That’s all!” he gasped. “By the jumping jupiter! ain’t that enough?
What in Tophet did I marry you for, I wonder?”

“Because you loved me.”

“That’s all bosh. I never cared a rap for you.” He laughed harshly,
enjoying the look of pain and fear upon her face.

“Then you did not even love me when you were courting me?”

“Not a picaune. I’ve got a yellow girl home I care more for than I do
for you. How do you like that?”

Mary buried her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly. Her idol’s
coarse, brutal character stood fully revealed. The thin veneer was
brushed like a cobweb from the rotten porous wood, exposing the
architect’s poor carpentering.

“I will go home to my grandfather,” she sobbed.

“All right, go. You’ve got my full consent, but remember, you can’t take
a cent of your sixty thousand pounds along. That became mine when _you_
did, and I mean to hold on to it.”




                              CHAPTER II.


Mary spent many weary hours trying to settle in her own mind what course
to pursue, whilst Roger was confined to his bed, cursing the blisters
which prevented him from walking, cursing Mary, her grandfather, and all
her ancestors in the same breath. She felt nothing but disgust toward
the man whom she had promised to love, honor and obey. What was there in
such a man to honor? He had told her in horrible language that the first
use which he should make of his feet would be to go on a protracted
spree, and she would see no more of him for a month. He added with an
oath “that he knew better than to come back for a second dose of
mustard.”

She had written several letters to her grandfather, asking his advice as
to what she had better do, but as yet she had received no reply. By his
wise decision she would abide, feeling sure that he would point out the
right way. She had not changed in her general bearing toward Roger. She
waited on his every whim with wifely solicitude, but without the
endearing words or loving caresses, which she would have bestowed one
week ago. He was still her husband, and would remain so until death
claimed either. She could not forget that. She owed him a certain amount
of obedience, further than that he could not force her to do his will.

“Why don’t you talk once in a while, or tell me a good story?” he said
to her one day. “You are like a death’s head at a feast, and about as
cheerful as one would be, I should judge.”

“I have nothing to talk about,” she answered, wearily.

“Then invent something. If Bella were only here now, she’d make things
lively for me. Not a dull hour in the day. She can dance, she can sing,
she can do anything.”

Mary compressed her lips for a moment, and then said calmly:

“Then you intend to keep that slave girl?”

“Ain’t at all likely that I shall part with her, Mrs. Willing. She is
too valuable. She’s only twenty-six. Look at the family she’s likely to
raise. Every pickaninny will be worth a hundred to five. Part with
Bella? Well, I reckon not.”

Mary shuddered. To hear her husband talk so coldbloodedly of traffic in
human souls, made her heart sick. Was he devoid of all human feeling?
She would try him and see.

“How much money would you want for all your slaves, if you were going to
sell them?” she asked quietly.

“Oh about five thousand, I rec’on. I haven’t many now. I sold a good
many last Spring, but I’ll buy a good lot more when I go back.”

She knelt by his chair, and clasped his arm with her hands, looking
pleadingly up into his face. “Roger, I have never asked a favor of you
since our marriage. You know how I abhor slavery. I cannot understand
it, and never shall. I cannot imagine one human being selling others as
if they were cattle without soul or feeling. Let me buy them of you,
Roger. I will free them, and hire them to work on your plantation. Then,
parents would not be torn away from their children, as you say is often
the case now, and God would bless us for doing right in his eyes.”

Roger burst into a loud guffaw. “That’s rich. By thunder! if it ain’t.
You would take my money to purchase my slaves, then liberate them. What
do I make by the deal?”

“But I am speaking of _my_ money, Roger. Surely I have a right to do as
I please with my own.”

“With mine own,” mimicked Roger. “And pray tell me what is your own?
Look at your marriage contract, madam, and see what that tells you.
Everything belonging you became mine when I married you. Do you think I
would have married you else? You can’t touch a farthing of it without my
consent.”

“And do you mean to say that you would refuse to give me a paltry
thousand pounds of my own money to do as I please with it?”

“You have understood my meaning fully, my lady. Not a sixpence do you
get out of me for the purpose of liberating my slaves. I’d give you any
amount you wanted for any other purpose.”

Mary rose in indignation, and raised her hand warningly. “Then beware,
Roger Willing, of what is coming. I saw it as I knelt beside you, I see
it now. God will send a terrible calamity upon you.” She bent forward as
if she saw some awful vision before her, and Roger watched her,
fascinated. “Be warned in time, miserable man, and repent ere God’s
wrath overtakes you.”

Roger placed his hands before his eyes, and tried in vain to steady his
voice as he shouted: “Cease your idle croaking, woman; you are enough to
drive one mad. Have you not seen and heard of the Willing temper which
stops at nothing when once aroused? Shall I give you a specimen of it
now; now, I say?” His voice rose almost to a shriek, while his face
became purple with rage.

It was now Mary’s turn to become frightened, for he had every appearance
of a mad man. “Roger, Roger,” she cried, “constrain yourself. I will say
no more. You shall have your will in everything, and if evil befalls
you, do not say that you had no warning.”

For many days after this, comparative quiet reigned between Mary and
Roger. She maintained a dignified silence, and spoke only when spoken
to, while Roger spent his time mostly in grumbling at everybody, and
everything that came near enough to him to cause him displeasure, but
this forced peace was rudely broken one day by a message to Mary. Her
grandfather was dead, and had been buried several days. She was needed
in England, being sole heir to all his wealth. Roger smiled and
congratulated himself as being a most fortunate fellow, while Mary in
tears—for she had truly loved her grandparent—prepared for her sad
journey.

Upon reaching England and meeting with old Mr. Willing’s lawyer, Roger’s
feelings can better be imagined than described, when he found that
Mary’s grandfather had died from the effects of her letter, telling of
her unhappiness, but he had lived long enough to curse his nephew, and
to add a codicil to his will, tying up everything so securely in Mary’s
favor, that Roger could never hope for a shilling of it, even in the
event of his wife’s death, for then it was to go to found a home for
aged men, if she died without issue. Roger flew into a towering passion,
and swore by all the gods that he would break the will, but he found
that the old man knew well what he was doing, and that now Mary was
independent of him, and could leave him if she chose, but she did not
choose. He was still her husband, for better or for worse. She had
chosen her lot. She must abide by the choosing. Divorce was something
unheard of in those days, and even if it had been, Mary had too high a
sense of honor to have availed herself of so questionable a mode of
becoming free from a distasteful marriage. She uncomplainingly bowed her
shoulders to the burden placed upon them, and after all business
connected with her grandfather’s estates was settled, followed her
husband on board an American vessel, and set sail for a new and untried
land, to meet she knew not what.

As Roger neared his birthplace, he began to feel that pride in his
possessions which is characteristic of us all to feel, no matter how
humble may be the object which is our very own, and he pointed out to
Mary with more real feeling in his manner than she had ever seen him
manifest, the old house standing on the bluff, and as they entered the
door he turned and kissed her, saying: “Welcome home, Mary. This is
yours as well as mine,” and the thought came to her, that perhaps from
this time on, they might live happier, and learn to love again.

Roger anticipated a stormy scene with Bella, but he had always been
master in his own house, and it would not take long, he felt sure, to
convince her that discretion was the better part of valor, and that she
must again become slave where she had reigned mistress. After removing
their wraps, he began at once to show Mary the quaint house in which she
must now make her home. Through long crooked passages ending in
unexpected octagon rooms, or perhaps in a high-ceilinged
picture-gallery, they wandered, laughing and chatting pleasantly, and
Mary felt nearer to and more at ease with Roger, than at any time since
that terrible night in Paris. The shadow seemed lifting, and she gaily
placed her arm within that of her husband’s, saying: “How delightful all
this is, dear Roger. You have not told me half the beauties of this old
place.”

“There is one more room, Mary, which will delight you, I know. We call
it the gable room. There is not another like it in the whole world. If
you wish it, it shall be yours. We can reach it best through my study.
Come and I will show it you.”

They passed through the study, and Roger opened a panel in the wall most
cunningly concealed, and began to ascend the narrow spiral staircase.
Mary followed close behind.

“There is a grand staircase leading from the other side,” said Roger.
“We will descend by that.” He had reached the top, when suddenly with a
stealthly spring, a beautiful creature barred his further progress. Was
it a woman? For a moment Mary could hardly have told. She was held
spell-bound, fascinated by the panther-like grace of the creature, who
threw back her magnificent head, and at the same time raised a faultless
arm, bare to the shoulder of any covering, except many and
curiously-wrought bracelets. “Halt, Roger Willing!” she cried in the
rich, peculiar voice of her race. “You cannot enter here, and bring that
woman. These are my apartments. If you wish to see me, come alone.”

Roger for a moment was startled, but quickly regaining his composure, he
laughed lightly, saying: “Don’t be a fool, Bella. This lady is my wife,
and _your_ mistress.”

“Never!” cried Bella, passionately. “Never will I acknowledge any person
as my mistress. Give me my freedom papers as you promised to do, and I
will go away; me and my child.”

Roger laughed scornfully. “Your freedom papers, girl? Not I. Why, you
have grown ten per cent. more valuable than you were a year ago. Your
freedom papers! Well, I guess not, my beautiful tigress.”

“Then may your death be on your own head,” she said, solemnly, as she
drew one hand from her pocket, and aimed a revolver at his breast. “With
my freedom papers I would have gone; without them, neither you or I
shall live!”

Before Roger could draw back she had fired, and the aim had been sure
and true. With a cry Roger placed his hand to his heart, and fell
backward, down the stairs, at the feet of Mary, who stood too horrified
to move or speak. Another shot rang out, and Bella, her beautiful face
covered with her life’s blood, fell across the threshold of the room she
had so jealously guarded.

Mary covered her eyes from the awful sight, and stood trembling beside
the still form of her husband. She dared not move, and when she essayed
to scream no sound issued from her parched lips. Her tongue clave to the
roof of her mouth. A delicious sense of repose stole gradually over her,
and as she sank upon her knees and rested her head on Roger’s quiet
body, she thought “This then is death. Thank God.”

Not until the second supper-bell had sounded were they discovered. The
living and the dead; and for many weeks after the sad tragedy, Mary’s
life was despaired of, but her fine English constitution carried her
through her severe trial, and four months after Roger Willing was laid
at rest, there came a pair of sturdy boys to comfort Mary, and they in
time helped her to partly forget the heavy shadow resting upon her home.
As the years passed the twins grew, and were the pride of Mary’s heart,
and also an ever-increasing care.

Roger the eldest by an hour was fair like Mary, with frank, fearless
blue eyes, and flaxen curls. Andrew was swarthy skinned, dark browed,
and had a somewhat forbidding countenance. Mary tried hard to show no
partiality between them, but her heart would lean toward Roger, with his
winning, courtly manner, and sunny disposition. Andrew saw it and
rebelled, but not to his mother. His nature was too secretive to openly
accuse her of having a fonder love for his twin brother, but every sweet
endearing word, or tender look, bestowed upon Roger was carefully noted
by Andrew, and pondered over in secret.

Mary carefully kept from them the manner of their father’s death, until
their twenty-first birthday, then, taking them to the study she showed
them the unused door, cunningly concealed behind tapestries, and sliding
it back, revealed the secret staircase which had never echoed to the
sound of footsteps since that fatal day.

Mary stood between her stalwart sons, and with an arm about each, told
them of the tragedy enacted there twenty-one years before, and warned
them of their father’s fate. She told them how, as soon as she was able,
she had caused the front portion of the house leading to the gabled room
to be walled up, and having changed her servants there was no one but
herself who knew aught of the secret staircase leading from the study.

“Let us go up,” said Roger eagerly, placing his foot on the stairs, but
his mother stayed him by a gentle touch.

“No, my son, the dust of twenty-one years rests upon the cursed things
above. It is my will that no one shall ever enter there. If I could have
kept the knowledge of your father’s fate from you, I would never have
told you this, but I knew that sooner or later some evil tongue would
whisper it to you, and I preferred to tell you the truth, although it
has opened a wound that will never heal.”

Roger placed an arm about her waist, and kissed her white hair. “Your
wish shall be sacred to me, mother mine. Much as I long to explore the
gable room, I shall never enter it except with your permission.”

Andrew said nothing, but brushed a cobweb carelessly from the corner of
the lower stair. A great black spider darted across his foot, another
followed. Mary drew back, a startled look in her eyes. “Come away,” she
cried, “come away. Black spiders are evil omens. No good will come I
fear, from my showing you this ill-fated staircase.”

Andrew smiled and turned on his heel. “Superstition thy name is dear to
woman. Where thou leadest she will follow,” he said sneeringly.




                              CHAPTER III.


Some few weeks later Mary received a letter, and hastened to impart its
contents to her sons. “We are to be honored, especially honored, with a
visit from Lady Augusta Vale and her daughter,” she said, with more
animation than her sons had seen her display in years. “Augusta Champney
was my dearest girl friend. In fact I had no other. We were inseparable.
She was my maid of honor at my marriage, and was soon after married to
Lord Arthur Vale, who died a few years ago leaving this daughter. I have
always kept up a correspondence with Lady Vale, as you well know, having
heard me speak of her many times. How gladly shall I welcome both mother
and daughter, and if the dear child in any way resembles her mother as I
remember her in her youthful beauty, then she is indeed most charming.
Let me see, she must be about eighteen now.”

Mary cast a thoughtful eye at Roger, who sat idly drumming on the table,
and looking out of the window with rather a bored expression.

Andrew saw his mother’s look and thought bitterly; “Her first thought is
always of Roger. I know what’s in her mind. She has already selected the
English girl to be my brother’s bride. Well he’s welcome to her. The
Virginia girls are good enough for me, but it makes my blood boil to see
mother place Roger first in everything, and if I thought I could
frustrate her plans I would cut Roger out as soon as I saw any signs of
his beginning to make love. I could do it, too.”

Roger suddenly stopped drumming on the table, and turned toward Mary.
“How long will these grand people stay, mother mine?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, dear. Nothing definite is said in this letter. I
shall not care if they never go away.”

“Whew! I think I’ll vacate,” exclaimed Roger, laughingly. “You won’t
want a great lumbering fellow like me around after _they_ get here. I’ve
been wanting to go to New York for ever so long. Now is my chance.”

“Roger, you would never be so ungallant as to run away just at the very
time when I need you most. Why I depend upon _you_ to be our cavalier.
What should I do?”

“Oh, Andy would pull you through all right. He can make himself twice as
agreeable to the ladies as I can. He’ll have the English daisy dead in
love with him in less than a month. Hey, old fellow?”

Roger rose and slapped Andrew heartily upon the back, whose brow clouded
still darker as he watched his brother’s smiling face. “I’ll go off,
also,” he said, gloomily. “Mother won’t want _me_ around. She never
does.”

“Don’t say that, my son,” replied Mary, warmly. “Why should I not want
you? Are you not my own boy, and as dear to me as Roger? You will both
stay here, I know, and help me to entertain my friends. Roger spoke a
moment ago of their being grand people. Lady Augusta will be greatly
changed from what I knew her, if she has even a spark of haughtiness.
She is simple, and free from anything approaching the English pride of
birth, which mar the otherwise lovely characters of the ladies of
England. I am sure she is too wise and thoughtful to rear her daughter
in any other but the true way, so we may expect to receive and welcome
two ladies who are not ‘grand,’ as Roger is pleased to style them, but
who will be as ourselves. Lady Vale could boast of her high lineage if
she chose, for there is no bluer blood in all England, but she is not
one to make a show, or parade her ancestors. I am sure you will never
hear her speak of it boastingly. She has not much of a fortune left, I
believe. Just enough to make her comfortable.”

Mary ended her little speech with a look of entreaty toward Roger, which
said plainly: “You are my dear son. There is none other in the whole
world like you. Stay and lay siege to this maiden’s heart, and give me a
daughter.” Roger interpreted the look, and arose with a shrug of his
shoulders, and left the room. His mother’s manner was marked, and
therefore man-like, he mulishly determined that no one should arrange
_his_ love affairs for _him_, and that if his mother for a moment
imagined such a thing, he would very shortly undeceive her. Accordingly,
a few days before the visitors were expected, he appeared at his
mother’s private room, attired for traveling. “I’m off for New York,
mother mine,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Don’t know how long I shall
be gone.”

Mary arose and threw her arms around his neck. “This is not treating me
fairly, my son. I know you are going on account of my guests who are
coming. Why do you object so strongly to meeting with them?”

“Home won’t seem the same after they get here,” replied Roger, brushing
the soft hair from his mother’s brow. “Andy will take good care of Lady
Vale and her daughter, and I’ll promise not to be gone longer than they
stay. Write me when they are leaving, and you’ll see me here in a
jiffy.”

Mary watched him depart with a tearful face. His long, swinging strides
soon took him from her view, and she sank into a seat, burying her face
in her hands. Until now she had not fully realized how much she had
reckoned on Roger’s falling in love with the daughter of her old friend.
He was heart free she well knew, never having cared especially for any
one lady, and she had really set her heart upon a marriage between her
favorite son and this girl who she imagined must be just the wife for
him. Now her plans were all dashed to the ground, and by her own
foolishness, too. If she had not mentioned their coming, but had taken
Roger by surprise, all might have been well.

She dashed the tears away, and went out to find Andrew, whom she told of
his brother’s departure. Andrew was not ill-pleased at the course Roger
had taken. He had not much of an idea of laying siege to Miss Vale’s
heart, still he was not unconscious of his brother’s superiority in many
ways, and he thought to himself that so long as the ladies stayed, it
was as well for Roger to be absent, and very thoughtful of him to take
himself out of the way.

Soon after this the ladies came. Lady Vale, tall, statuesque, with snow
white hair, and a beautiful face despite her years, and her daughter, so
much like the mother, barring the beautiful bronze hair, and laughing
grey eyes in which, as yet, there was no shadow of a sorrow. Both had
the same sweet, serious mouth, charming when in repose, but most
enchanting when parted with a smile, which was often the case with
Victoria Vale. Her’s was a sunny nature, and Mary took her to her heart
at once. In less than a week they had grown to be inseparable
companions, and Lady Vale often laughingly remarked, that she was
beginning to feel the pangs of jealousy for the first time in her life.

“If God had only blessed me with a daughter like you,” sighed Mary as
she was strolling with her young companion. “It has ever been a sorrow
to me that one of my sons was not a daughter.”

“Surely you do not love either of your sons less, just because he is a
boy?” asked Victoria quickly.

“No-o,” said Mary, hesitatingly, “yet I would rather Andrew had been a
girl.”

“She loves the absent one more dearly,” mused Victoria, looking at
Mary’s speaking face. “Will you tell me about the son who is not here?”
she asked, drawing Mary to a rustic seat and placing an arm about her.

“With pleasure, my love. You have seen his portrait, but that is cold,
inanimate. It does not, cannot give you his winning charm of manner, his
laughing voice, so full of hearty cheer. I miss him sadly, Victoria. He
is a part of myself. We have never been separated so long before. The
boys have often taken trips with their tutor while being educated, but
never of very long duration, unless I went also. I long for his merry
voice, always gay. I long to hear him say, ‘I am here, mother, mine.’”

“Why do you not send for him, Mrs. Willing? I am sure he will gladly
return if he knows how you long for him.”

Mary gazed at the unconscious face of the beautiful girl. Dare she tell
her what was in her mind? Dare she awaken thoughts which, until now, she
was sure Victoria knew nothing of? Yes, she would. Her mother-love for
the absent made her scent approaching danger, and she had noticed
Andrew’s growing interest in her fair guest. She would speak. There
could be no great harm in that. She took Victoria’s hand, and pressed it
gently, while she looked directly into the sweet grey eyes.

“Roger is shy where ladies are, except, of course, his old mother. I
fear he ran away to avoid you.”

A faint, pink flush covered Victoria’s face, and neck, and she quickly
drew her hand from Mary’s.

“I am sorry,” she said, simply. “My mother and I will proceed on our
travels to-morrow.”

“No, no, dear child,” cried Mary, in alarm. “You misunderstand me. Do
not think for a moment that you are keeping Roger from his home.
He—he—oh, how can I tell you, my sweet girl, for fear you may think my
words designing ones, and still you should know me better. I would
sooner die than cause you sorrow, or make you afraid of me.”

Victoria kissed Mary, and said gently: “Dear Mrs. Willing, I could never
suspect you to be anything but good, true, and full of zealous care for
my well-being. Next to dear mamma I love and adore you. Then what is
this that agitates you so? Will you not tell me?”

“Yes, I will tell you, Victoria. Roger has gone away because—because he
loves you.”

“Loves me!” cried the girl, rising and confusedly placing her hands to
her head. “Ah, no, dear madam. You are mistaken. He has never seen me.”

“Ah, my dear, he does not need to see you. Love is not born with the
sight. It is of the spirit. We have talked of you so much. He has dwelt
upon your image, until he is already acquainted with you, and he has
flown from you, abashed at his own boldness in daring to love one so far
above him.”

Victoria buried her blushing face in her hands, and Mary gently drew the
beautiful head to her bosom. “Do not be alarmed, dear one. He is not
coming back to disturb your peace. He will never tell you of his love,
so now forget that I have spoken, or that such a being as Roger Willing
lives. I cannot part with you; your mother has not a warmer affection
for you than I. Then why not remain here in America, making short trips
to different points of interest, but always making this your abiding
place.”

Artful Mary. If she had studied the rules of diplomacy all her life, she
could not have taken a surer way of arousing Victoria’s interest in the
absent Roger, than by talking as she had done.

Many times for weeks after, Victoria caught herself blushing at what
Mary had told her. There is no young girl if told that a man whom she
has never seen, and who has never seen her, is madly in love with her,
but what will often allow her thoughts to wander to the absent one.
“Poor fellow,” she thinks, “I am heartily sorry for him, but of course
he did the best thing for himself by going away. I should never have
fancied him, and it would have been dreadful to have had him in the same
house with me.” Some such thoughts as these often ran through Victoria’s
mind, and she would have been thoroughly surprised at herself if anybody
had taken her to task as to how many times a day Roger’s name was on her
tongue, or in her mind. She would have blushed to answer. Yes, indeed.
Artful Mary.

At first Andrew met Victoria only at meal times, and in the drawing-room
after dinner, and to his mother’s queries as to how he liked her, he
answered that he “never did fancy red heads and owls’ eyes,” much to
Mary’s secret satisfaction, but it was not long ere Andrew sought
Victoria in her favorite haunts about the grounds, and if he saw her
start out for a ramble or canter he was not slow in following her.
Victoria did not dislike his attentions. His dark melancholy beauty was
extremely fascinating, and Andrew had a manner if he chose to exercise
it, that few women could resist. And in a very few weeks he threw all
the fascinations of which he was master around the unconscious Victoria.
Mesmerism was a subject just being agitated at that time, and Andrew was
deeply interested in it. He believed Victoria to be of a yielding,
pliant nature, and one easily influenced by magnetism. If they were
sitting at the table he would fix his eyes upon her, and presently her
eyelids would gently tremble, and then she would raise her eyes like a
frightened fawn to his, and he would turn away with a satisfied smile.
Again, he would be sitting upon the veranda as she passed out. He would
follow her with his eyes, willing her to go so far and no further. She
would stop, hesitate, turn back, and again ascend the steps, and seat
herself beside him. All this pleased him, and he felt sure of being able
to will her to do his bidding at any time when he saw fit. At first he
was only interested in her, and had no thought of love or marriage, but
as the weeks went by, he felt a longing for her presence when she was
absent, and the mere sound of her voice in greeting, sent a thrill
through him, which told him that if he did not already love, he was near
to the brink.

As for Victoria, she was totally ignorant of any feeling, except
friendship, for Andrew Willing, unless it might be a vague uneasiness
when in his presence, for which she was unable to account. She knew that
she breathed easier when away from him, and that very often she
accompanied him on drives and boating, when she did not care to go, but
felt some unseen power almost compelling her to do that which was
against her will. She often raised her eyes to find his fixed upon her
with a strange light in their depths, which made a chill go through her,
and at times when she felt this unaccountable feeling, she would steal
into the picture-gallery, and gaze long and earnestly at Roger’s quiet,
peaceful face. It rested her, she knew not why, and she always went out
feeling calmer, and more like her old self ere any disturbing element
had come into her life.

Lady Vale did not see this little drama being enacted under her eyes, or
she might have taken her daughter away, for she had conceived a dislike
for Andrew, unaccountable even to herself; but Mary’s eyes were open,
and she looked on with fear and trembling. Oh, if Roger would only
return before the mischief had gone too far. She would write a pleading
letter, taking care not to mention the name of Vale, and perhaps he
might come home. So the letter was sent, and very shortly the answer
came. Roger was enjoying himself hugely, and had no desire to return
until the English visitors had departed.

“Well,” thought Mary, “if the mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet
must go to the mountain. I will propose that we all take a trip, and it
will be strange if I cannot bring them together before the journey is
ended. I am satisfied what the result will be, once they see each other.
My boy cannot help loving her, and she will likewise be drawn to him.”

Mary was not long in broaching the subject of travel to Lady Vale, who
acquiesced immediately; and inside of a week, the house was left to the
care of servants, and the four people had started for Canada.

Andrew was delighted with the arrangement, for he anticipated much
pleasure journeying with the girl he loved, for he now acknowledged to
himself that he was madly in love with the sweet fair English maiden,
whose smile was heaven to him, and for whom if need be he would gladly
die. He longed to breathe his passion but he dared not. Something in the
serene, unconscious face restrained him, and he felt that he could
afford to wait. He seemingly had things all his own way. He saw how his
mesmeric power controlled her, and he felt no fear but that when the
proper time came, she could no more resist him than the charmed bird can
resist the pitiless eyes of the snake. He knew that she had not a spark
of regard for him, but that would matter little when the time should
come to act. His was the stronger will; he would compel her to yield to
his love, then it would be an easy and most pleasant task to teach her
to love him.




                              CHAPTER IV.


They had been travelling for nearly two months, visiting the mountains
and the different lakes, and Mary was beginning to think about getting
toward New York and Roger, when without any warning came a telegram,
announcing a fatal explosion which had resulted in the probable loss of
both eyes to Roger. He was in a hospital and wanted his mother. Mary
lost no time in going to him taking Andrew with her, and leaving Lady
Vale and her daughter to return to the “Five Gables,” and make
everything comfortable for the invalid’s reception, for Mary determined
on taking Roger home as soon as permissable.

In the hurried preparation for departure, Andrew saw no way in which to
broach the subject of his love for Victoria. He doubted if she would
listen kindly when so agitated by his mother’s keen distress, so he bade
the girl who had become so dear to him, a calm good-bye, and left her
with a strange sinking at the heart, which he knew was not caused by the
news of his brother’s accident, but by a presentiment of something about
to befall Victoria.

Lady Vale and Victoria hurried back to Mary’s home, and there waited in
sorrow for the home-coming of one whom they knew to be his mother’s
idol. Mary had written that there was “no hope that Roger would ever see
again, but they dare not tell him just yet. Let him fully recover from
the shock to his nervous system.”

Lady Vale’s eyes filled with tears as she read the letter, which showed
plainly a mother’s buried hopes. “Poor Mary,” she said as she handed the
letter to Victoria. “The sun of her world has gone down never to rise
again. Her hopes have all been centered in that boy. She seemed to care
but little for Andrew. It was all Roger, Roger with her. How will she
bear this heavy cross?”

Victoria took the letter, and stole up to the picture-gallery, and stood
before Roger’s smiling, winsome face. “Could it be possible that the
light of those laughing eyes had gone out forever? Ah no. God was good.
He would restore to Roger his sight,” she felt sure.

They arrived at evening when everything was hushed and still, and a
quiet peaceful calm rested on the home nest. Victoria watched the
carriage being driven up to the door, then she fled to her room. She
could not meet him yet. Not till the sorrow of being in his childhood’s
home, which his eyes never more would gaze upon, had lost its first
bitterness. She had seen Mary descend from the carriage weeping, and had
seen Andrew assist a blindfolded figure tenderly out, and she realized
that she had no part in their grief; that she was only a stranger, and a
vague longing took possession of her—a longing to be nearer the stricken
one; a wish to take a sister’s part in nursing him back to health and
strength.

In a few moments, she went down, but not into the family sitting-room.
She took a light wrap from the rack in the hall, and passed quietly out
into the fast gathering twilight; but the quick eye of Andrew had seen
her form pass the open door, and he followed her, glad of the chance to
see her alone. She turned as she heard his step, and although the
darkness partly concealed his face, she noticed the glad ring in his
voice as he came quickly up to her, and took both her hands in his.
“Victoria, sweet one, are you glad that I am back? Did you miss me? Oh
how your pure face maddens me,” and before she had realized what he was
about to do, he had caught her to him, and had pressed a burning kiss
upon her lips.

Victoria struggled to free herself, but she failed, and indignantly
looked up into the face of her captor. His eyes shone with a strange
light. She felt a dreamy languor stealing upon her, a desire to sleep.
What did it mean? Had this man a power over her which she was unable to
resist? Horrible thought. She made one more feeble attempt to get away,
and then lay passive and quiet in his arms.

He looked gloatingly down at his helpless burden. “I have conquered,” he
whispered hoarsely. “She cannot fly from me now. She is mine. Victoria,
my sweet angel?”

“Yes,” she answered faintly.

“Put your arms about my neck and kiss me.”

She slowly did as he bade her, but there was no expression in the white
face pressed to his, no passion in the kiss. Only a passive obedience to
his will, which shamed him, hardened though he was, and he felt no
pleasure in the caress which he had been obliged to gain by force. He
gently drew her to a rustic seat, and fanned her with his hat. In a few
moments she breathed a low sigh and looked up into his face; then she
started to her feet and would have fled if he had not caught her arm and
held her.

“Let me go,” she cried. “You hurt me.”

“Victoria, be seated for a moment until I can explain,” he said
pleadingly. “I have not meant to be harsh with you. Any culprit has a
right to plead his cause and ask for mercy. Then will you hear me?”

“I will hear you,” she answered coldly, “but I prefer to stand.”

“That means that you have no confidence in me,” he retorted bitterly.
“You are safe from my touch, Victoria. I shall never lay hands on you
again without your permission. I did not mean to frighten you, I had no
intention of doing as I did. I was a brute. Will you forgive me?”

“No,” she answered indignantly.

His lips parted in a dangerous smile. “You will not forgive me this
slight offense. Then if I am in disgrace with you I might as well tell
you all. I love you! Stay, Victoria,” as she turned toward the house.
“You _shall_ hear me. I adore you! Life will not be worth living if you
do not share it with me. I want you for my wife, and I mean to have you.
Yes,” as she scornfully tossed her head. “As surely as this moon shines
in the sky above us, just as surely will I win you for my wife. You do
not think so now; you say in your mind, ‘I hate him,’ but the time will
come when you shall humbly place your arms about my neck, and say of
your own free will, ‘I love you; I am yours.’”

If Victoria had been a girl of the period she might have returned a
saucy and spirited answer, but being a young lady carefully reared by an
English mamma, and living long before slang was invented, she simply
said: “Are you done, Mr. Willing?”

“Yes, I am done, Lady Victoria Vale.’

“Thank you for placing me on my guard. I shall know how to meet you from
this time on,” and with these words she turned and left him.

Andrew sat for some time in deep thought. He was not disheartened at the
turn affairs had taken. He knew his power and meant to use it, but in a
more temperate way than he had begun. He must be careful and not
frighten the bird away, or all would be lost. So long as she staid under
the same roof with him, he was confident of success.

Victoria made one great mistake. She did not tell her mother. At first
she felt ashamed, humiliated, and dared not confide in her best friend.
She knew that her mother would immediately start for England, and she
did not want to go. She loved Mary dearly, and now here was Roger
afflicted sorely, and she had promised Mary to be his eyes for a while
at any rate. Then why should she allow her hatred of Andrew to drive her
away from duty, and why should she tell her mother of a disagreeable
episode which would never occur again. It would only disturb her, so
Victoria met Andrew at breakfast the next morning with a serene
countenance, and the two elder ladies dreamed not of the tempest in the
two young hearts.

Roger did not appear at breakfast. He was still very much fatigued from
his journey, and dreading to meet strangers with this affliction still
new upon him, he breakfasted in his own rooms, which Mary had made the
brightest and most cheerful looking in the house, even if her darling
could not see them. She hastily drank a cup of coffee, then begging to
be excused, saying “Roger would feel lonely if left too long,” she went
out, leaving Lady Vale with Victoria to entertain Andrew.

Victoria looked after Mary with wistful eyes. How she longed to
accompany her, and beg to be allowed to minister to the invalid’s many
wants.

Lady Vale glanced rather anxiously at Victoria’s pale face and drooping
eyes. “Are you not well, my love?” she asked.

Victoria started, and a faint rose color supplanted the lily in her
cheeks. “I was not aware of feeling other than in the best of health,
dear mamma. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I thought your general expression savored of lassitude; lacked
vivacity, as it were. No doubt the depressingly warm weather has
something to do with it. Now that Mary is again at home and does not
need us, would you like to visit some of the lakes, or perhaps the
mountains?”

Andrew listened almost breathlessly for Victoria’s reply. He expected to
hear a quick assent to Lady Vale’s proposition. After his rough conduct
of last night Victoria would gladly make her escape from his hateful
presence. He could hardly conceal a smile of delight as Victoria laughed
lightly, and said: “Ah, mamma, what did I tell you the other day? Did I
not say that you were sadly in need of spectacles? That your eyesight
was rapidly failing you? And this proves it. To think that you should
imagine I was losing my health. I never felt better in my life. I do not
care to travel. What more enchanting spot can we find than this? I never
tire of its beauties, besides I promised dear Mrs. Willing to lighten
her labor of love, by assisting her in reading to, and caring for, the
invalid. Would it be courtesy on our part to leave her just at the time
when she needs us most?”

“Certainly not, my daughter. If such be the case, we will stay by all
means. I only spoke of going away because I felt concerned as to your
health.”

“Then let your heart be reassured, dear mamma,” answered Victoria,
rising and kissing Lady Vale. “I feel more than usually bright this
morning. Will you walk with me down by the lake? We have still a few
more lines of Virgil to translate.”

“With pleasure, my love. Will you not accompany us, Andrew?”

Andrew hesitated, and was about to assent, when a warning flash from
Victoria’s eyes stayed him. It plainly said “Do not inflict your
presence any longer upon me, sir. I shall rebel.”

“I am extremely sorry, Lady Vale, but I have sadly neglected my duties
in being away from home caring for Roger. I must now go over the
different plantations, and start immediately, so adieu for to-day and
possibly for several days. I may find much to detain me.” He bowed
courteously to Victoria, gallantly kissed Lady Vale’s hand, and left the
room.

Victoria’s heart gave a bound of relief. “Now I shall be my old self
again,” she thought. “Relieved of his odious watchful eyes following me
everywhere, I can again be natural. Ugh! I feel as if a snake had
crawled over me, and left its nasty trail behind.”

She gave her arm to Lady Vale. “Come mamma, let us get out into the
beautiful sunlight, among the fragrant blooming trees. I feel stifled
here.”

They had been down by the lake over an hour. Lady Vale with her white
hands idly resting in her lap, was watching two swans which were sailing
majestically on the placid bosom of the water, while she listened to the
sweet voice of Victoria, reading the closing lines of Virgil. Suddenly
she looked toward the avenue, and placed her hand on Victoria’s arm.
“Hush, daughter, I heard voices. Ah, I thought I was not mistaken. It is
Mary leading her son. Is not that a touching sight? Who could look upon
it without being affected. The mother, her hair whitened with years,
bending her form under the weight of her stalwart youthful son upon whom
she has centered all her hopes.”

Victoria raised her head, and her eyes filled with tears. Roger’s head
was bent until his lips touched his mother’s hair. They were still too
far away for her to distinguish what they were saying.

“How does the dear old place look, mother mine? Is it changed?”

“Not at all, dear Roger. The peacocks are strutting on the lawn. The
swans are sailing on the lake, and, oh my darling, the fairest girl who
ever lived is sitting on the stone seat which you fashioned with your
own hands when but a lad. You ran away from her, but fate, or a kind
Providence which ever you will, has decreed that you are to meet. You
are not averse to it, my son?”

“Not now, mother. I can be nothing but an object of pity to her, and as
for me, all interest in anything feminine has ceased forever.”

Victoria rose and advanced to meet them.

“Oh, if you could only see her now,” exclaimed Mary. “She is tall and
most beautifully formed. Her complexion is like roses; her eyes like
stars; but they are filled with tears, my son; and those tears are for
you; and the expression on her sweet face is such, that if you could but
see it, you would take her in your arms and kiss the tears away. It is
not pity. It is love; maidenly love, which as yet does not know that it
loves.”

Victoria was near enough now to hear Roger say: “Mother, you speak
wildly. What do you mean?” and she wondered what Mary had been saying.

“Ah, Victoria, I missed you, and wondered where you had hidden. Roger,
this is Lady Victoria Vale, of whom you have often heard me speak.”

Roger pressed the little hand placed within his, and smiled. Victoria
thought she had never seen a more winning smile, yet it was full of
sadness.

“Yes, I ought to know Lady Victoria Vale very well,” he said, still
retaining her hand; “but I should like to have met her under brighter
circumstances.” He lightly touched the bandage about his eyes. “If I
could but tear off this hateful band, and be able to see the beautiful
vision which my mother is never tired of praising! But that pleasure is
denied me. I must be content to see only with _her_ eyes.”

Victoria blushed and withdrew her hand.

“Dear Mrs. Willing is partial, and I am afraid sees only with the eyes
of love. She says she loves me as she would a daughter, so you must
excuse any little exaggerations on her part.”

Mary had gone on and left the young people together, while she spoke
with Lady Vale. “Come,” continued Victoria, “let me introduce you to my
mother. Shall I become your guide? Your mother has basely deserted you.”

“Hail to her desertion,” laughed Roger as he felt Victoria’s arm slip
into his. “This is a lucky exchange of companions for me. Are you not
taller than my mother?”

“Somewhat,” replied Victoria, leading him to her mother who rose and
grasped both his hands, kissing him tenderly.

“Ah! this is indeed a greeting worth having,” cried Roger. “See what it
is to be an invalid. I doubt if you would have accorded me this honor,
had I been presented to you six months ago, Lady Vale.”

“Who knows,” replied Lady Vale, who saw that Roger chose to make light
of his affliction, and did not wish too much sympathy expressed. “I am
glad that I am not a young lady. I am afraid I should lose my heart. You
are too dangerous as it is. No wonder your mother’s life is all centered
in you.”

Roger’s laugh rang out joyously, and Mary smiled to see him in such good
spirits.

“Ah, Lady Vale, it is very plain to be seen that you have visited
Ireland, and kissed the ‘Blarney Stone,’” said Roger.

Lady Vale placed her hand on the young man’s arm. “My dear boy,” she
said gravely, “I love your mother as I would a sister. I love her sons
because they are her sons. I have mourned with her over this affliction
which has come upon you, until you have become very near to me. There
has has been no flattery meant in the few words I have spoken.”

Roger grasped the white hand still lying on his arm, and carried it to
his lips, while his voice had a suspicious tremble in it as he said, “I
never longed for my sight as I do at this moment. My mother has
undertaken to describe you, but I am sure her description must fall far
short of the reality. How is it that I am blessed with so charming a
trio to minister to my comfort, and to help to chase dull care away? I
have been anything but a docile invalid, have I not, mother mine?”

“You have been most patient, my son. Indeed, I have wondered how you
could bear all that you have with such rare fortitude, but sit down on
this rustic seat made by yourself, and rest. I am sure Victoria will
most gladly take upon herself the task of entertaining you, while Lady
Vale accompanies me to the gardener’s cottage. I must see him before
luncheon.”

Roger smiled as his mother gently pressed him into the old stone seat,
and walked away with Lady Vale. Victoria stood a short distance from
him, looking out over the lake, and thinking: “What shall I say to him?
I must be cheerful while I feel just like crying, and I can’t think of a
pleasant word to say. I wish I had a good book. One never need to exert
themselves when they can read something interesting. I will ask him who
is his favorite author, then step up to the house and select it.”

“Am I deserted?” said Roger, putting out his hand gropingly. “I thought
I heard my mother say that Lady Victoria Vale would stay by me.”

“I am here,” replied Victoria, moving nearer. Roger touched her dress.

“There used to be room enough for two on this stone. It has not changed,
I think. Will you not sit beside me? I like to have people near while I
talk to them.”

Victoria complied, blushing slightly, as there was scant room for two,
and necessitated the placing of Roger’s arm over the back of the seat.

“How ridiculous of me to blush,” she thought, “he can’t see me.”

“Now tell me how you like our home, Lady Victoria. Is it not the fairest
spot you have ever seen?”

“It is very beautiful, Mr. Willing, but I know one fairer, and more dear
to me.”

“Ah! I can guess without further explanation from you. It is your
English home. Let me see, what is the name of it? I have heard my mother
say.”

“Valecourt, Mr. Willing. Oh, it is so beautiful. I wish you might see
it.” She stopped in confusion, as a pained expression rested for a
moment upon Roger’s face. “Oh, what _have_ I said, pray forgive me, Mr.
Willing. I am such a blunderer. I had forgotten your affliction.”

“Don’t make any excuses,” replied Roger, trying to laugh cheerfully.
“You were wishing I might see your home so far away. What is to hinder
me? I will see it now by proxy. You shall describe it so graphically
that I shall need no eyes, and perhaps, who knows, in the years to come
I may gaze upon its beauties. I shall not always be blind.”

Victoria gazed at the young man pityingly. She knew how hopeless was his
case by Mary’s despairing letters. “Would it not be better if he knew?”
she thought. “Would it not be more charitable to tell him the truth?”
She would consult Mrs. Willing.

Roger continued. “I will forgive you on one condition. That you drop the
formal Mr. Willing, and call me Roger. No one calls me Mr. Willing,
except strangers, and you are not a stranger. You are my cousin. Your
mother said as much. She said she was my mother’s sister. I’ll tell you
what we will do. I hate the handle to your name. I am too thoroughly
American to enjoy titles, although my parents were of English blood.
I’ll call you Cousin Victoria, while to you I am Cousin Roger.”

“Agreed,” said Victoria, laughing. “I never did like those near to me to
call me Lady Victoria. It places me miles away from them.”

Roger felt a strange thrill in the region of his heart as Victoria said
“those near to me.” Then he was one of the fortunate “those.” How soon
would it be ere he could dispense with the hateful bandage, and look
upon the face of the sweet-voiced maiden, who so unconsciously said such
comforting things?

“Let us begin without delay, then, Cousin Victoria; tell me of your fair
English home, Valecourt.”

While Victoria pictured her home to Roger, Lady Vale and Mary walked
slowly toward the gardener’s cottage arm in arm.

“You have guessed my hopes, dear Augusta, or I should say, what was once
my hope, in regard to your child and my Roger.”

“Yes, Mary,” and Lady Vale pressed her friends hand tenderly. “Shattered
hopes. I will say that I should not have been averse to their union, had
Roger been in full possession of his health, but now—dear Mary, _you_
surely cannot wish it, while of course Victoria will not allow herself
to love a blind man. Think of what a future hers would be, tied for life
to a never-ceasing care. Ah no, it can never, never be.”

Mary burst into tears. “My poor boy! What a dark prospect lies before
him. I must tell him the physician’s decision, though the telling break
my heart.”

“Has he enough strength of will, think you, to bear up under it? When he
knows there is no hope, will he do as so many have done before him? Will
he take his own life.”

“God forbid! Oh Augusta, you are a mother; pity a sorrowing mother’s
breaking heart, and promise me, that if God brings those two young
hearts together, and they love, in spite of Roger’s affliction, promise
me that you will consent to their union; that you will do nothing to
separate them?”

Mary stopped and wound her arms around Lady Vale, who kissed the
tear-stained face of her friend. “It is a hard thing to promise, dear
Mary.”

“Ah! but my heart will break if you do not. Think of how little Roger
will have to make him happy. Think of what a joy such a love as
Victoria’s would be to him. They may not love, but if they do, will you
promise me not to withhold your consent? Do Augusta, or my life will be
miserable.” And Lady Vale, although her heart misgave her, finally
consented, hoping that Victoria’s good sense would prevent her from
doing anything so rash.




                               CHAPTER V.


Andrew remained away three days. They seemed the longest three days in
all his life. He longed to be near Victoria, to hear her voice, to watch
her changing face, even if she did show weariness at his presence, and
treat him with scorn. His perseverance must win in the long run, and
then how sweet the victory. He doubted if he would have loved her with
half the fervor, if she had willingly thrown herself into his arms, but
her scornful half-averted looks, only made the blood course faster
through his veins, and the chase was twice as fascinating. As he rode up
the broad avenue that quiet summer evening, he was as positive of
victory, as though Victoria were already his wife, and he anticipated
the swift look of disdain which would shoot from her eyes, with as much
ardor as a favored lover longs for his mistress’s most enchanting smile.
To his enamored fancy her coldness was only a sure sign of a complete
conquest for him. As he drew near the house he heard voices, and then a
laugh which he knew could only belong to one person, Victoria. The
happy, joyous ring of her voice told that she was enjoying her
companion’s society. Andrew wondered who it could be. A pang of jealousy
shot through him, as he descried a tall, manly form with his arm passed
through Victoria’s, slowly pacing in front of him. “Ah!” he thought, “so
we have a visitor. Very familiar, I must say. I’ll soon put an end to
that.” He savagely thrust his spurs into the animal’s sides, causing the
poor creature to rear and plunge madly, while Victoria who had not heard
Andrew approaching, screamed and jumped to one side, dragging Roger with
her, as the horse dashed by. Andrew wheeled and returned, glancing
quickly at Victoria’s companion, and when he saw the blindfolded figure
of his brother, he uttered an exclamation which sounded very much like
“damn.” He had forgotten Roger, or if he had thought of him, it was of
his being in a darkened room shut away from everything joyous, and
bemoaning his fate. Instead, Andrew saw him apparently happy, with a
jest on his lips, entertaining his fair guide in a manner peculiarly
Roger’s own, and “evidently very pleasing to Victoria,” Andrew thought
bitterly, for _he_ had never been able to beguile such laughter from
those sweet lips. In another moment he was smiling at his foolishness,
at being for even a second jealous of a blind man. “Of course she is
doing her best to cheer him,” he thought. “Poor Roger. Why should I
begrudge him a few moments of happiness? It’s all he’ll ever get, I
fancy.”

He alighted and grasped Roger by the hand. “Hello, old chap,” he said
heartily. “I’m glad to see you out, and more like your old self than
when I went away. How are the eyes progressing?” To Victoria he merely
raised his hat, who acknowledged his salutation by a silent bow.

“Hello, yourself,” cried Roger, taking his arm from Victoria’s. “I’m
right glad to see you back again, Andrew. My eyes are doing fine, thank
you. I think it nonsense to keep all this fol-de-rol around them. I’m
sure they would get well much quicker without the bandage. I fancied I
could see a ray of light this morning, as Richard dressed them.”

Andrew started, and glanced toward Victoria, but she stood a little
apart, with her eyes on the ground, and as he slipped his horse’s bridle
over one arm, he offered the other to Roger, saying: “Come, brother, let
me perform the pleasant duty of guiding you, although I may not be so
apt as your fair companion. I hope it will not be long now that any one
shall have to be eyes for you.” While in his heart he was saying: “Can
it be possible that the doctor was wrong in saying that his eyesight was
totally destroyed? Doctors make mistakes sometimes, as well as other
people. Well, if such be the case my goose will be cooked; I can see
that with half an eye. Victoria would never look at me twice, after
gazing into the laughing eyes of Roger, for he is far superior to me,
and I know it. Well, may the best fellow win. I can hold my own with a
man without eyes, but, ah yes, there is a but in every case, I reckon,
and if Roger regains the sight of those melting orbs, good-bye, Andrew
Willing, and exaunt from the scene.”

He followed his mother from the dining-room after their evening meal,
and when they were alone, he said: “Is there any hope of Roger regaining
his sight?”

“None whatever, Andrew.”

“But he told me he fancied he could see a ray of light this morning,
when his attendant was dressing his eyes.”

Mrs. Willing began to weep. “Poor boy, he fancies that every day;
perhaps he can distinguish light from darkness, but what is that? I had
a letter from Dr. Kohler last night. He is coming—as he promised to
do—when it is time to remove the bandage. Then he will break the news to
Roger. It is better that he should hear it from a stranger.”

Andrew went out from his mother’s presence with almost rejoicing in his
heart. He knew he ought to mourn with her at this affliction which had
come upon his twin brother, but instead, he felt a wicked satisfaction
in knowing that Roger would be shorn of his greatest strength as long as
he lived. The care of the plantation, all money matters which had once
been Roger’s prerogative, would now revert to the younger brother;
younger by one short hour, but who had been made to feel all his life,
that Roger was his superior in everything, and now,—now that a new love
had sprung up in his heart, and for a moment, a fierce jealousy as well,
he knew that if Roger by any chance should regain his eyesight, he
should hate him with bitterer hatred than ever Cain displayed toward
_his_ brother. All else he might relinquish in Roger’s favor, but
Victoria never.

For several days he watched the pair with Argus eyes. Not a motion made
by either escaped him. Victoria was soon conscious of his espionage, and
became guarded in her actions, never betraying by word or look the deep
interest she felt in Roger, so that Andrew finally concluded, that Roger
was fast falling in love with Victoria, but that _she_ cared nothing for
the blind man, nor would she ever. He soon tried his power over
Victoria, and to his delight found it as strong as ever. One day he was
sitting in the little rustic summer-house, when he saw her going down
the avenue toward the lodge gates. He never took his eyes off of her
figure, but slowly put out both hands toward her. Presently she turned,
and came rapidly back directing her steps to where he was sitting. There
were two doors to the summer-house, and as she approached, he quietly
slipped out behind an acacia bush, taking care not to turn his back to
her, keeping his eyes fixed steadily upon her. She entered by the
opposite door and sat down, with a vacant expression in her eyes,
languidly leaning her head against the lattice work. A few seconds
passed, and Andrew stole out from behind the bush, and seated himself
beside her, taking her passive hand in his, and patting it gently.

“Are you happy, Victoria,” he whispered.

“Oh, so happy,” she answered dreamily.

“Do you love?”

“Ah yes,” with a sigh, “I love.”

He passed his hand over her face and her eyes closed. “Do you love me,
Victoria darling?”

“Yes, I love you.”

“Then kiss me. Kiss my hands, my hair, my face!”

Victoria complied, and different to that other time when he had forced
her, there was now a passionate abandonment in her caresses, which
caused the blood to course through his veins like fire, and he caught
her to his breast, pressing his face to the one not whiter than his own.

“God in heaven, how I love her!” he cried. A moment later he was again
behind the bush, and Victoria slowly opened her eyes, yawned, and looked
about her, bewildered. “Strange,” she said dreamily, “very strange. How
came I here? I started for the lodge. Oh, I know. I felt so sort of weak
and trembling, that I decided to rest for a moment. I must have dropped
asleep.” She arose and passed out.

As soon as she had disappeared, Andrew entered the summer-house, flung
himself down on the seat so lately occupied by Victoria, and remained
buried in thought for some time. He dared not try his power too often,
and only then when he was safe from detection. He knew that if
Victoria’s suspicions should be again aroused, she would flee from the
house, and he would lose her forever; so when in her presence he was
most circumspect, and veiled his eyes when he knew they betrayed too
dangerous a fire.

Meanwhile Roger’s eyes had ceased to pain him, and he chafed at having
to still wear the bandage. One day his ill-humor and impatience got the
upper hand of him, and he took Victoria by surprise by suddenly tearing
the bandage from his face. She had been reading Ivanhoe to him. They
were out in their favorite stone seat by the lake. A quick gesture
caused her to glance up, and she uttered a faint cry, for she saw him
for the first time without the disfiguring cloth.

“Oh, Cousin Roger! What made you?” she cried. “You must let me bandage
your eyes again.”

“Never,” he replied, catching her hand as he felt it touch his face. “I
have waited for that confounded doctor to come till I’m tired. My eyes
must get accustomed to the light or I’ll never see, and Victoria, I have
heard your voice, your laugh, have felt your presence until I am wild to
see your face.” He groped for her face, and took it between his hands,
drawing it close until it nearly touched his own.

“Can you see me?” she asked eagerly. He sadly dropped his hands.

“No, Victoria. I cannot see even an object. Oh, God! the thought that
perhaps I may be totally blind is maddening. Victoria!” His voice as he
spoke her name ran the whole gamut of love, hope, despair, misery.

Victoria quickly placed her hand upon his. “What is it, dear Roger?”

“Victoria, I cannot live if I am blind. When the doctor comes, if he
tells me there is no hope, I shall end my useless life—there.” He
pointed toward the lake.

“Oh, no, no, Roger! How can you think of anything so horrible? Have you
no love for your mother who adores you, that you should grieve her so?”

“I shall soon be forgotten, Victoria. Better to die and end it all than
to live a burden, and no comfort to anybody. Ah, Victoria, you do not
know what hopes I have cherished. What visions I have seen. God grant
they may be realized.” He grasped the hand which still lingered on his
arm. “My angel of peace, my comforter, my eyes, it is a cruel question I
am going to ask you. Could you sacrifice your youth, your fresh beauty,
to become the companion for life of one who would be a constant care;
who could not bear to have you from his side one moment?”

A glad light suffused Victoria’s face, but ere she could reply Andrew
stood before them. She quickly withdrew her hand from Roger’s, whose sad
countenance became still sadder.

“Ah, here you are,” said Andrew, noting with his keen eyes the disturbed
faces before him. “What, Roger! Are you without the bandage?”

“Yes,” said Roger gloomily. “I can see as well without it, as with it.
Darkness and daylight are as one with me now. God help me!” He rose and
Andrew passed his arm through his brother’s.

“Dear old boy don’t give way like this. The doctor’s decision may be
favorable. Don’t borrow trouble.”

“Oh no, I’m not borrowing,” said Roger, with a laugh, sadder than any
tears. “It is thrust upon me free gratis. There is no need to borrow.
Come, tell me of yourself Andrew. Mother tells me you are up for
Governor. Do you stand the ghost of a chance, think you?”

“Not so much as the tenth part of a ghost, dear fellow. The Whigs will
carry the day in spite of our heavy electioneering, and I hope they
will. I’d never consented to run if I had dreamed of getting elected.
I’d make a fine Governor, wouldn’t I?”

“You’d be far better than the present one I reckon, even if you are but
twenty-two. Cousin Victoria?”

“Victoria is not here,” replied Andrew. “She is out of sight, gone
toward the lodge.”

“Then let us go to the house, Andrew. Great God! what an affliction is
mine if I never regain my sight. I had rather lost a limb, aye, all of
them, than to have lost my eyes. Ah, my brother, the doctor’s decision
means everything to me!”

“Were you making love to Victoria as I came up?” asked Andrew, darting a
glance at Roger, which fortunately he could not see.

“Not exactly,” replied Roger rather ironically, remembering the recent
conversation. “It takes two to make love generally.”

Andrew’s dark face lightened. “Then she was not agreeable?”

“How could a sensible woman listen to the wild ravings of an imbecile?”
said Roger, bitterly. “What girl, young and beautiful, would willingly
yoke herself to a cripple for life? I must have been an ass, a two-fold
idiot, to let my feelings carry me away, but by heavens, Andy! if the
doctor gives me hope—Hope! Oh, God, what a blessed word; if he gives me
hope, I’ll win her, but——”

“If he tells you nothing can be done?” asked Andrew, eagerly.

“There will be but one course left for me,” replied Roger, again
pointing to the lake.

“Ah, no, old boy, not that,” and Andrew placed his arm about Roger’s
neck. “Mother would die heart broken. You are still her darling, and
will always be. I’m content to take second place in her affections, and
Roger you must not become morbid. It’s the worst thing you can possibly
do. Come, let us go up to the house, and I will play on my violin, and
so chase dull care away.”

Andrew scrutinized Victoria’s face when next he saw her, but it was
serene and unconscious. “She does not care a rap for Roger,” he thought
exultantly, “for she could never hide it so admirably. She would betray
herself by word or action.” Which shows that Andrew knew but little of
the sublime duplicity of woman.

That night the doctor came, and when morning dawned fair and rosy, Roger
was told what to him seemed his death-warrant. Out under the nodding
trees, arm and arm, the great oculist and Roger paced, while gently as a
mother could have done, the man of science old in years, explained to
the young man just on the threshold of a long life, why he could never
again look upon the faces of those he loved, or study nature in all its
varied forms. Roger listened in silence, then, as they approached the
old stone seat, he said: “Leave me here, doctor, I would be alone.” The
doctor was deceived by Roger’s calmness and left him. The stricken man
buried his face in his hands, and listened to the doctor’s retreating
footsteps. “He will soon be out of sight and hearing,” he murmured,
“then I will go my way, and nobody will be the wiser until too late.
Will she shed one tear for me, I wonder? Yes, I reckon she will. She is
tender-hearted, and she will grieve with my mother. Poor mother, _she_
loves me, but oh, I cannot live with this load at my heart. An object of
pity, tolerated, where once I was the most sought after. Is it wicked, I
wonder, to take one’s own life under such circumstances? God knows, and
I will know soon. Let me think. I used to know just how many paces to
take from this old stone to the lake. Ah, yes, it is fifteen. I was just
that age when I fashioned this seat. I have a ’kerchief of Victoria’s
which I stole one day. It is perfumed with vervaine. How I love the
odor! How I love the owner of this little dainty square!”

He took the ’kerchief from his breast pocket and kissed it. Then holding
it tightly in one hand, he began to measure off the paces toward the
lake, counting them aloud as he paced. When he had reached the
thirteenth, a pair of arms were suddenly thrown around him, and
Victoria’s voice cried: “Roger, what would you do? Destroy two lives
instead of one?”

“Victoria, you here!” exclaimed Roger. “Why did you come so soon? If you
had only waited a few moments—just a few moments.”

“Ah, but I could not wait, dear Roger; something compelled me to seek
you, and having found you in the act of self-destruction, I have
detained you long enough to say, that if you are still bent on drowning,
go ahead; but I warn you that you will have to answer to God for two
lives.”

“What do you mean?” gasped Roger, clutching Victoria’s arm.

“I mean that if you go, I go too.”

“Victoria!”

“Well, I am here.”

“Did I hear aright?”

“I am within good hearing distance. You could not have misunderstood me
very well.”

“Are you willing to brave death with me?”

“Yes, if you are still bent on suicide, but I would much prefer to live
with you on good solid pork and potatoes. We could get more fun out of
it. Oh, Roger, if you only knew how ridiculous you looked measuring off
those fifteen paces.”

Now no person about to commit suicide likes to be laughed at, and as
Victoria’s gay laugh rang out, Roger’s face looked uncommonly silly.

“Um,” he said gloomily, “how long had you been here before you spoke,
Victoria?”

“Oh for quite a while, sir knight of the rueful countenance. I saw the
doctor returning alone, so as I had something to whisper into your ear
when no one was by, I hastened down to the old stone seat.”

“Were you there when I kissed your ’kerchief?”

“Right behind you, and I didn’t admire your taste at all. I considered
the kisses wasted when you might have had the owner. Oh, you stupid,
silly boy, must I do all the courting?”

Roger grasped Victoria’s hands and held them tightly, while a great hope
shone in his face.

“Victoria, you are not trifling with me? What means this sudden change
in you? Yesterday you drew your hand away as if in displeasure at what I
said, and you have seemed to avoid me ever since. I have not dared to
hope.”

Victoria laughed. “Do you not remember, Roger, that Andrew came upon the
scene just as you asked me that question? Do you suppose I cared to make
a third party an interested listener? I am here to give you my answer,
which I hope will please you. It is, that I love you, eyes or no eyes;
that I am willing to face anything so long as you are by my side.”

Roger drew her to him, and laid her sunny head upon his shoulder. “My
loved one, dare I take this blessed hope to my bosom? Are you sure that
it is not pity which prompts you, and that you are not making a
sacrifice for my sake?”

Victoria took his face in her hands and kissed his sightless eyes. “It
is no sacrifice on my part, dear Roger. I worshiped your picture before
I ever knew you. I have loved you always, I think. Just because you are
blind, should I cease to love you?”

“Oh, God, I thank Thee!” cried Roger. “I thank Thee for the gift of a
true, pure woman’s love, which Thou has sent me in this my hour of
need.” He bared his head, and turned his sightless eyes toward the
heavens. Then placing an arm about Victoria’s neck, he kissed her
reverently upon the forehead. “What a magic healer is this divine love,
dear sweetheart. An hour ago I longed for death. Now I long to live, for
I have been given new life by one who loves me. Ah, how blessed am I to
be made the recipient of such an affection. God bless you, my own.”

Victoria gently led him to the old stone seat. “Then you have entirely
given up the idea of a watery grave?” she asked, banteringly, as they
were seated.

He placed both arms around her, and laid his head upon her shoulder.
“Don’t mention it again, dear love. Think if you had come too late.”

“Ah, but I determined yesterday not to leave you for one moment alone. I
watched the doctor and you. I was not far behind you when he left you. I
had you in surveillance, young man, and from this moment I constitute
myself your private detective.”




                              CHAPTER VI.


The lovers walked back to the house planning their future. Mary, who had
been anxiously waiting for Roger, met them as they entered. Roger had
been extremely melancholy for several days, and Mary feared the effects
of the doctor’s decision upon his nervous system, but as she saw his
beaming countenance, and the tender smile which he bestowed upon
Victoria, she realized that something wonderful had happened.

“Here is your mother, dear Roger,” whispered Victoria. “Shall we tell
her?”

“Of course, no one will rejoice more than she. Dear mother, the very
dearest mother in all the world, I’ve found a daughter for you. She has
promised to be my wife. Wish me joy, for joy unspeakable is mine.”

Mary clasped Victoria in her arms. “My precious child, I have prayed for
this day, but I did not think my prayers would be answered so soon.
Thank God for his goodness.” She kissed Roger tenderly. “So the doctor’s
decision had no terrors for you, my son?”

“Not after this blessing came to me, dear mother. An hour ago I was
bewailing my fate. Now I am the happiest man alive. Nothing can terrify
me so long as I have the assurance of this dear girl’s love. God bless
her.”

Victoria ran laughing from the room, only to meet her mother in the
hall. “Whither so fast, my dear?” called Lady Vale.

“You are wanted in the library,” was all the reply Victoria made.

Lady Vale was far from pleased at the news which Mary hastened to
impart. She had indeed promised Mary that she would not interfere
between the young people, if they chose to love each other, but she had
relied on Victoria’s good sense in avoiding anything approaching
tenderness on Roger’s part, and she had been so imprudent as to fall in
love herself. Lady Vale had different views regarding Victoria’s future.
There were many brilliant parti’s in England. Men of noble birth, who
were sure to succeed in life, and who could place Victoria on the
highest round of the ladder. What imbecility to bury herself in this
obscure place, just because of her generosity of heart, and womanly
sympathy, had led her to think she loved a blind man. Lady Vale set her
thin lips quite firmly together, as she noticed Mary’s radiant face and
Roger’s evident happiness.

“Ah, Augusta, how happy we shall all be here together,” said Mary, “for
of course you will dispose of your English estates, and live here with
us. This house is large enough for half a dozen families.”

“Are you not looking too hastily into the future, my friend?” said Lady
Vale, coldly. “Victoria has more than myself to consult. She is not yet
eighteen. Her guardian’s consent is needed. She is much too young to
think of marrying. Sir William Pelham will at least think so, I am sure.
He has full control of her until her eighteenth birthday. I can do
nothing.” She did not add that she would lose no time in penning a
letter to Sir William, enjoining him in strictest confidence to withhold
his consent to this to her distasteful marriage. Her speech was like a
cold-water douche to her hearers.

“How soon will she become eighteen?” asked Roger.

“Next December.”

“Then will she be free to do as she chooses?”

“She does not come into her dower until she is twenty-one,” replied Lady
Vale, evasively.

“But she can marry at the age of eighteen?” persisted Roger.

“No doubt she can,” returned Lady Vale, “but girls at that age are
fickle. She may have changed her mind by then.”

Mary looked sadly at her friend. She saw that Lady Vale was far from
pleased at Victoria’s choice, and as she thought of it she could hardly
blame her. If she had been blessed with a lovely high-born daughter,
would she willingly have consented to her wedding a comparative nobody;
moreover one so afflicted as Roger? She laid her hand on Lady Vale’s
shoulder. “Dear Augusta, let the children settle this matter between
them. If Victoria repents of her choice; if she wishes at any time to be
released, Roger will immediately give her her freedom. Is it not so, my
son?”

“Most assuredly so, mother. I have no wish but for Victoria’s complete
happiness. She shall not be bound by any promise, except by her own
sweet will. I am human enough to be selfish, and to crave her love and
care, but I am not so selfish that I will not seek her happiness before
my own.”

Lady Vale smiled and placed her hand in Roger’s. “Then you do not insist
upon an engagement, or a formal announcement of marriage until Victoria
is her own mistress? I have no need to write to Sir William.”

“That is for Victoria to decide, Lady Vale. I leave her free to do as
she chooses. Whatever she thinks is right will please me.”

Lady Vale cordially shook his hand, and after kissing Mary, left the
room in search of Victoria. She had already decided that the quicker
they left for England, the better it would be for all concerned.
Victoria, parted from Roger, would soon forget him, and once back at
Valecourt, Lady Vale would see to it that her daughter never held any
communication with her blind lover. She found Victoria in their private
apartments, busily engaged in giving her French poodle a bath.

“So my daughter, who has never seemed anything but a child to me, loves
somebody else better than her old mother, and is going to forsake her,”
and Lady Vale kissed Victoria while a convenient tear dropped on her
cheek.

“Oh, no, mamma, I am not going to forsake you. We can all live here so
cosily together, and you ought not to say that I love somebody better
than you. Did you love grandma less because you loved papa too? Of
course I love Roger, but it is a different love than that which I bear
you.”

“You forget, my love, how impossible it would be for me to live here
altogether. I must be at Valecourt a part of the year. It is high time
we were returning now. We had better start in a few days. It is
considered highly improper to remain in the house with your _fiancé_.

Victoria stopped scrubbing the poodle, and looked with astonished eyes
at her mother. “But, mamma, I cannot leave Roger. We are to be married
so soon it would be hardly worth our while to leave and then come back.
It would be better to all go together.”

“Indeed?” interrogated Lady Vale, slightly raising her eyebrows, “and
may I ask when you intend becoming Mrs. Willing?”

“Well, we thought in a month, sure, mamma. Roger needs me now if at any
time, and I don’t see what we want to wait for. Of course we shall be
married quietly, and that will please both of us.”

“You certainly have not lost any time in arranging matters, Victoria;
you seem to have forgotten that Sir William must be consulted, and that
your mother requires a certain amount of obedience shown her.”

Victoria opened her eyes quite wide. “Why, mamma, I never dreamed that
you would have the slightest objection. I have been so used to doing as
I thought best, that I never once thought but what you would be as
delighted as Roger’s mother. She certainly does not object, and what has
Sir William to say about it?”

“He can say a great deal, my child. If you marry without his consent
before you are eighteen, your landed estates go to me, to hold until my
death. Then they revert to your cousin, Dora Vale. There is but very
little ready money you know. Less than a thousand pounds I think.”

“But why should Sir William refuse to let me marry whom I wish?”

“For the very same reason your dear papa would have if he were alive. He
would say that you were too young to know your own mind. Come, Victoria,
listen to reason. Let us go back to England, to dear old Valecourt. I
promise not to interfere between you and your love, but take plenty of
time to make your decision, then when you are eighteen, if you are still
of the same mind, I will not withhold my consent to your marriage, after
a suitable time, say two or three years.”

“Two or three years!” gasped Victoria. “Why that is an eternity. How
nice it is to have somebody map out your life for you. Oh no, mamma, we
don’t wait two years or even two months. I don’t wish to seem
disrespectful to you in what I am saying, but I think I am old enough to
know my own mind, and not to be treated like a great baby. Roger would
die before the two years were passed, and so would I. If Sir William
chooses to withhold his consent, he may for all us, and Dora Vale is
welcome to the estates. They will be a Godsend to the poor girl. She is
a governess, or something, is she not? If justice were hers half of it
would belong to her. Just because her father married beneath him, as
grandpapa thought, he must needs be cut off with the proverbial
shilling. Turn about is fair play, I’m sure. If I marry without Sir
William’s consent, I only return to Dora what is rightfully her own.”

Lady Vale shook her head. “Headstrong like your father,” she said,
turning to leave the room. “The least opposition to your wishes only
makes you the more determined, but I warn you, Victoria, while there is
yet time, to pause, and reason whether it will give you pleasure to
offend your parent for the whim of a moment. I do not easily forgive.”

She went out leaving Victoria sitting on the floor of the bath-room,
holding the dripping poodle in her arms. “Flotsie, mamma’s the angriest
I ever have seen her, but we don’t care. She wants me to do as she
likes, and I want to do as I like, and I’ll win the day, of course. She
can’t remain angry with her only daughter so very long.”

Flotsie shook her long, silky ears, and barked intelligently, and so the
conference ended.

Lady Vale exploded a bomb at the luncheon table by quietly saying: “A
sailing vessel starts for Queenstown next Wednesday. I have written to
engage passage for myself and Victoria. We have had a most enjoyable
time here, and have staid much longer than we should have done. It will
be early September ere we reach home, and we have many important
engagements for September.”

Her announcement was received with different emotions, by the different
persons assembled around the table.

Andrew, who had been away all the morning, and who therefore had not
heard of the important event which had happened in his absence, looked
up with a strange sinking at the heart. To lose Victoria now meant
certain failure. He was gaining more influence over her every day, and
it would be only a question of time, when he could keep her under his
mesmeric power for hours if he chose, and then he would be able to carry
out the plan he had formed. He must in some way thwart Lady Vale, and
prevent her from leaving America for some time at least.

“You must not think of leaving us for months yet,” he said. “We are only
just getting acquainted. We had counted upon having you with us all
winter, had we not, mother?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mary, casting an appealing glance at Victoria. “How
can we part with Victoria, who has grown to be one of us?” She divined
Lady Vale’s intentions regarding her daughter, and felt sad accordingly.

Roger said nothing, but his face which had seemed so radiant a few
moments ago, looked gray and troubled. Victoria was watching her lover.
She saw the shadows fall upon his face, and her own clouded while she
glanced at her mother with flashing eyes. “Mamma may go, if she chooses,
but _I_ stay here.”

“Open war is declared,” exclaimed Andrew, laughing, who thought Victoria
only in fun.

“Yes, it is open war,” replied Victoria, rising and moving to Roger’s
side. “Mamma knew my plans before luncheon. She thinks to frustrate them
by taking me back to England, and so separate me from Roger, but I have
promised him never to leave him, and I shall keep my word.”

Roger turned his head, and kissed his sweetheart’s hand, which was lying
on his shoulder.

Andrew started to his feet. “Never leave him,” he repeated. “Do you mean
to say that you are going to marry my brother?”

“Why not,” replied Victoria, quickly. “Is there any law to prevent it?”

Andrew saw that his violent emotion was drawing attention toward
himself, so with an effort he mastered his passion and became seated,
saying with a laugh which sounded forced: “Well, this is the greatest
surprise I ever experienced. It nearly took my breath away. You two have
been uncommonly sly to spring so unexpected a pleasure upon the rest of
us poor mortals. It is not too late for congratulations, I hope?”

“Oh, no,” replied Victoria, blushing as she felt Andrew’s piercing eyes
bent upon her. “It only happened this morning, and it seems not to have
met with the approval of all concerned.”

“I am delighted,” said Andrew, rising and taking Victoria’s hand. “Roger
is to be congratulated, and so are we all for gaining such an
acquisition to our family.”

Mary rose and went over to Lady Vale. “I am sure you will withdraw your
decision of so soon returning home, dear Augusta, now that you see how
united we may all become.”

“I shall sail on Wednesday, and Victoria will accompany me,” replied
Lady Vale with more haughtiness in her manner than the gentle Mary had
ever witnessed.

Roger arose and, led by Victoria, left the room. They sought their
favorite seat near the lake. “Well, my darling,” said Roger sadly, “your
mother will prevail I suppose, and carry you away from me.”

“Never!” interrupted Victoria. “I’m not a baby in swaddling clothes.”

“But you are under age, pet. Your mother will influence that man, who is
your guardian, to be nasty toward us, and who knows what may happen
after we are separated. I am very much afraid we shall never meet again.
It is not as if I had my eyes, sweet one. Once I would have defied them
to have taken you away.”

“Do you care if I lose my estates, Roger? Would you take me poor as a
church mouse?”

“Do I care if you are poor? Why, my darling, I can’t begin to use the
money I have now, what would I do with more?”

“Then I’ll marry you to-morrow.”

“Your mother will never consent.”

“We will dispense with her consent, dear Roger. When we return to the
house man and wife she will bow to the inevitable, and laugh with the
rest of us. It’s a long ways off to my birthday. One hundred and fifty
days.” She said this so naively that Roger immediately took her in his
arms and kissed her repeatedly. “Oh, my angel, what an age to be kept in
durance vile.”

“Yes, Roger, an awfully long time, and so many things can happen in that
time. All I lose by marrying you now are my estates, which will revert
to a little cousin whom I have seen but twice. Grandpapa disinherited
her father for daring to marry a governess, so papa got it all. Now
little Dora will get it back; that is when mamma is through with it, so
you see I am really playing the good Samaritan in two cases—marrying
you, and enriching Dora.”

“Ah, you witch,” cried Roger, catching her to him again. “Who could
resist your sweet persuasive tongue. Not I. Do with me what you will. We
cannot be married too soon to suit me. Shall we enlist Andrew in our
behalf?”

“No, no!” exclaimed Victoria quickly. “He—he—” she stopped confused.

“He—he—he what?” laughed Roger. “He don’t want you himself, does he?”

Victoria was silent. Roger held her with such force that she almost
screamed. “Has he ever made love to you, my darling?”

“Just a little, a long time ago, but I think he has given up all
thoughts of it lately.”

“Well I should hope he had,” said Roger, somewhat dryly.

“But do you know, Roger, dear, I am awfully afraid of him at times. He
has such a peculiar manner, and really fascinates me in a way I cannot
describe to you. I like him, and still I hate him. I am drawn toward
him, yet he repels me. Did you ever know of his having any mesmeric
power?”

“No, he was always a quiet fellow. I never understood him. There has
never been that love with us which is said to exist so strongly between
twins; but you are mine now, dearest; you will soon be his brother’s
wife, and as such are sacred. Now, when shall we be married,
sweetheart?”

“As soon as possible, Roger. We will confide in your mother. She will
help us out I know, and see to all things needful. Oh, love, it don’t
seem possible that I am so soon to be all your very own.”




                              CHAPTER VII.


The parties left by the young couple in the dining-room separated
without a word. Mary went to her own room in tears. She feared for Roger
if Victoria should leave him. He had confided to his mother how nearly
he had come to taking his life that day, and how he had been saved by an
angel. For the first time in the friendship of over forty years, Mary
felt her heart angered toward Lady Vale. She was taking the wrong course
to so oppose two such hot-headed people as Victoria and Roger, and Mary
resolved to go in search of her friend and lay the matter seriously
before her.

As for Andrew, his whole being was in a state of torment. The
announcement had come upon him so suddenly that he half doubted his own
ears and eyes. “Victoria in love with his blind brother? Absurd! Did not
_he_ control her heart? Was _he_ not gaining an influence over her
whereby she would in time be all his own? And did Roger think for a
moment that the prize was his? Well, he would soon let him know who held
the whip hand. He would mesmerize Victoria when he knew Roger was where
he could hear them, and then he would compel her to say things which
should cause Roger to believe her false. Oh, this was not a losing game
for him yet. Oh, no.”

He walked out of the house and toward the lake. As he neared the stone
seat he espied the lovers clasped in each other’s arms. The sight
maddened him. All the evil in his nature came to the surface. He turned
on his heel muttering, “Ah! how dearly shall he pay for every kiss
lavished upon her who is mine alone. Oh, how I hate him for coming
between us, for she was beginning to love me, I know it, but she shall
love me again, I swear it. Oh, if the devil were only here, so that I
might make a compact with him. How quickly would I sell my soul for the
price of her love.” He went into the summer-house and threw himself upon
the wooden seat, and abandoned his thoughts to wicked nefarious schemes,
whereby he might win Victoria from Roger.

Mary at once lent her ear to Victoria’s plans, but she first pleaded
with Lady Vale to consent to an early marriage. Lady Vale coldly
listened until Mary had pleaded her case, then she calmly answered that
she should take Victoria with her Wednesday, and leave the matter
entirely in the hands of Sir William, in whose wisdom and judgment she
had perfect faith. Mary left the room in despair, and sought Victoria to
whom she told her failure.

“I knew you would meet with no success,” replied Victoria. “Mamma is
very determined. So am I. Now, come, dear Mrs. Willing, you must see
about getting the necessary papers drawn up, as of course Roger cannot
be of much assistance, only by being present, and the speedier our
marriage is consummated the more at ease we shall feel.”

Andrew little thought, as he assisted Victoria to a seat in the family
carriage the next day, that he had touched for the last time Victoria
Vale’s hand. That when next he saw her she would be Victoria Willing. He
would not have worn so confident an air as he watched the carriage
disappear, in which were also his mother and Roger, if he had suspected
that his brother was about to make his own the girl who _he_ considered
was already within _his_ power.

The three occupants of the carriage were strangely silent for a wedding
party. Mary held Roger’s hand within her own. He frequently raised the
slender hand to his lips in mute silence. She knew his thoughts. They
were full of gratitude for what she was doing, and although her heart
misgave her, she would have dared much more for the pleasure of seeing
her darling son happy.

Victoria looked out the carriage-window at the trees, whose branches
seemed to wave her a friendly adieu. She could almost hear them sigh:
“Farewell, Victoria Vale. Adieu, fair maiden. When next we see thee,
thou shalt be a loved and loving wife. Thou wilt have taken upon thyself
vows which God alone can’st break.” She glanced at Roger, whose
sightless eyes were turned toward her, and whose face expressed the joy
which was in his heart. Did she regret the step which she was about to
take? Not at all. She felt no misgivings for the future, only an
ecstatic joy; a sense of sweetest rest. She trusted that God’s blessing
was resting upon her, although she was disobedient to her mother.

Two hours later as the sun was just sinking, leaving a trail of crimson
glory on “the Five Gables,” the carriage deposited the three
conspirators at the marble steps of the grand entrance. Victoria,
immediately upon alighting, slipped her arm through Roger’s. “Come, my
husband, let us go and make our peace with mamma.” She led him to her
mother’s apartments. Lady Vale was superintending the packing of two
huge boxes, and looked up as the door opened and the two culprits stood
before her. Something in their faces warned her of what was coming. Her
face became stern and cold. “Well, you two are married?” she said,
before either could speak.

Victoria gave a little scream and cried: “Who could have told you?”

“Your faces are the tale bearers,” returned Lady Vale. “You do not need
to utter a word. I am not going to heap reproaches upon your heads as
you evidently expect, and then mildly pronounce a blessing over you. All
that I might, can, or shall say, will be communicated to you by my
lawyer. From this hour I have no child. Victoria has chosen a man whom
she has known scarcely two months, in preference to the mother who bore
her, and who has loved her devotedly. So let it be. I do not love her
any more, and I warn her that God will visit his wrath justly upon her,
as he does on all disobedient children. No good can spring from this
hasty marriage. Nothing but evil.”

“Mother!” cried Victoria, springing toward Lady Vale, “you are not
cursing me?”

“No, Victoria. God shall curse you; not I. Leave me now, I do not wish
to see you again while I remain. Rachel will soon have all the boxes
belonging to me filled. Then I shall start for New York.”

“No, no! dear mother, stay here with us. I cannot have you go away with
such a bitter feeling in your heart toward Roger and me. Or if you go,
let us go with you. Forgive us, darling mamma. See, I kneel to you.”
Victoria sank upon her knees and threw her arms about Lady Vale. “I do
not love you the less for loving Roger too, dear mamma. Will you not
make us happy by giving us your blessing?”

Lady Vale disengaged her daughter’s clinging arms. “Arise, Victoria,
your pleadings are but a mere form. No loving, obedient daughter, could
have so disgraced her mother as you have done this day. Did I not tell
you that I had no daughter?”

Victoria gave a low wail as if struck to the heart, essayed to rise from
her knees, but ere she could regain her feet she fell forward in a dead
faint, breathing the name of “Roger” as she fell.

Lady Vale gazed upon the prostrate form of Victoria while Roger swiftly
groped his way to her side. “Oh, God, if I could but see!” he cried. He
kneeled and took his wife in his arms, softly stroking her face. Lady
Vale pulled the bell cord, at the same time telling her maid Rachel to
bring water.

Roger turned his sightless eyes in the direction of Lady Vale, his fine
face aglow with indignation. “Madam,” he said slowly, “we may have
incurred your displeasure, but we are not deserving of such bitter anger
as you have shown. For myself I do not care. I shall endeavor to bear up
against God’s wrath, which you seem to think will be so plentifully
showered upon us; but my wife, by right of law, I am bound to honor and
protect, you have used words toward her this day which I, for one, shall
be slow to forget. In all courtesy to you as my mother’s guest, I cannot
turn you from her house, but Victoria is mine. No earthly power can take
her from me, and I advise you not to try it.”

At this moment Mary appeared at the door followed by two servants. “What
has happened?” she cried, as she saw the agitated face of her son, with
Victoria’s senseless form in his arms.

“Mother, I wish the servants to take Victoria to my apartments. I will
explain matters when we are alone.”

Lady Vale turned suddenly toward Mary. “Did you have a hand in this
scheme to rob me of my daughter, Mrs. Mary Willing?”

Mary started at the unwonted usage of her full name by one who had never
called her anything but “Mary.” “I was present at the marriage of
Victoria and my son. It was no scheme, and nobody has tried to rob you
of your daughter.”

“You have said enough,” returned Lady Vale, shrugging her shoulders. “I
have lost a friend as well as a daughter,” and with these words she
passed into an adjoining room, closing the door after her.

Mary stood completely unnerved gazing at the closed door, while the
servants who were supposed to be without eyes or ears at such times,
tenderly lifted Victoria and bore her to Roger’s apartments. “Are you
here, mother?” he asked. Mary roused herself from the semi-stupor which
seemed to have taken possession of her. “Yes, my son.”

“Then give me your arm, and while we are walking through the halls I
will tell you of Lady Vale’s unjust anger.”

Mary felt saddened at what Roger told her, and as she helped to restore
Victoria to sensibility, she wondered if Lady Vale had ever possessed a
heart, for to one of Mary’s gentle nature, the course which Victoria’s
mother had taken, seemed cruel in the extreme; and when she witnessed
Victoria’s grief, which even Roger’s loving words and caresses could not
assuage, she went herself to plead her new daughter’s cause with the
incensed mother; but Lady Vale’s door was barred against all intruders,
and Rachel, with a dignity born of the quarrel between her superiors,
told Mary that her mistress would see no one, and that in two hours she
would be en route for New York. Lady Vale wished to leave the house as a
stranger. With these words Rachel closed the door in Mary’s face, who
walked sadly away. Ere she reached her room she met Andrew, who seemed
much agitated. As he caught sight of his mother his dark face became
more sullen and sinister, and he said as he grasped her arm: “What is
this that I hear the servants gossipping over and commenting upon? Is it
true that Victoria has married Roger, and that _you_ and the coachman
were the only witnesses of the ceremony?” Mary trembled, for so she had
seen her husband many times when in a fury. “Speak, woman!”

Mary raised her eyes. “Woman!” she echoed. “Is it thus that you address
your mother, Andrew?”

Andrew bent until his face nearly touched Mary’s. “Yes, woman!” he
repeated. “By what other name shall I call you? Do you know that I am
going mad? That a thousand demons are whispering horrible things into my
ears? Do you know that you have helped to rob me of the only thing I
ever loved on earth? Great God! What shall I do if I have lost her!”

Andrew’s mad ravings were too much for Mary’s already overtaxed nerves,
and without a word, but with a horror in her eyes which Andrew never
forgot, she fell as one dead at his feet. In an instant Andrew’s passion
cooled. He took his mother in his arms and bore her to her room. The
drawn look about her mouth frightened him. Something peculiar in the set
lines of her face warned him that this was more than a mere fainting
fit. He rang for assistance and sent a man on the swiftest horse for
medical aid. When it came Mary was beyond all earthly cares and sorrows.
Kind and willing hands labored unceasingly for hours over the still
form, but to no purpose. Life had fled, and when Lady Vale left “The
Gables,” she knew not that the soul of its beloved mistress had also
left it never to return, nor did she know, until months had passed.

Roger seemed stupefied at this awful blow which had fallen without
warning, and helplessly clung to Victoria, who roused herself to act
when she divined the truth. It was she who thought of everything,
proving herself such a treasure that Andrew’s admiration grew, and even
in his sorrow at his mother’s death, his scheming brain was busily
trying to divine how best to separate Roger from the girl who he would
not acknowledge was his brother’s wife. She was his own still. He had
proved _that_ in Roger’s very presence, by merely taking her hand in his
and stroking it gently, while he spoke of what great pleasure it gave
him to welcome her as a sister. What comfort would be Roger’s with such
a loving companion, and although their mother’s death had been most
untimely, she must not regard it as an evil omen following so closely
upon the marriage. All the while he talked he noticed with satisfaction
that she did not shrink from his touch, but gradually leaned toward him
until her head rested upon his shoulder, and she lay passive in his
arms. He looked over to Roger whose sorrowful face and sightless eyes
should have appealed to his heart, but Andrew had no heart, except where
his own interests were concerned, and he looked at his brother, so
unconscious of the wrong he was doing him, and thought how he would stab
him through this fair creature who was controlled by his will to do his
bidding, and who would not disobey him, even though he told her to kill
the husband whom she adored.




                            BOOK THE SECOND.




                               CHAPTER I.


                          FIFTEEN YEARS LATER.

“The Five Gables” is not much the worse for the wear and tear of fifteen
summers and winters. It still stands an irregular shape on the high
bluff looking down on its humbler neighbors as if proud of its ugly
magnificence. But if the mansion has not changed, can the same be said
of the dwellers therein? Let us see. No one will forbid us walking up
the steps of the porch, and entering the low window which leads into
what seems to be a study and library in one. A man sits at an open desk
busily engaged in writing. His black hair is plentifully streaked with
grey. His face, although not old, has deep lines graven upon it which
ought not to be seen on any but one bowed down with a weight of sin. His
eyes are peculiarly sad, and have a hunted look, strange in its
intensity, as he looks up from his writing to welcome a tall, fair
woman, who opens the door and comes swiftly to his side, laying a white
hand on his shoulder. “Still pouring over those old law papers, Andrew?”
she said, playfully placing her other hand over the closely written
sheets of foolscap. “Why you are making an old man of yourself, working
so persistently, you spend the greater part of your time in this musty
old study. Every night you have a repast served to you here, and I am
sure there are times when you do not retire until the wee small hours.
Why do you toil so laboriously? Surely we have an abundance of riches,
more than we can ever use. Then why not take a little recreation
occasionally? I scarcely see you except at meal hours, and very often
those too are spent by you here.”

Andrew turned his head and pressed his lips to the hand still resting on
his shoulder. “Have I been so lacking in husbandly care, that you are
forced to complain of being neglected, my dear wife? Forgive me, sweet
one. Come in front of me that I may see your face. Ah, there is a little
frown upon it which must be charmed away.” He rose and pressed an arm
around her, playfully tapping the tiny wrinkles on her forehead. She
laughed and pointed to the papers. “But you are evading my question,
Andrew. Is it necessary that you should dig and delve amongst these
musty old things the greater part of your time?”

“Highly necessary, my sweet wife, or I should not do it, rest assured of
that; but I hope to be soon through.”

“Ah, but you said that seven years ago. I don’t see as you are any
nearer through than then. Many people have remarked to me of your
altered appearance. Mrs. Bradley said yesterday, that you look like a
man who has a secret grief. Is there anything troubling you, Andrew? If
there is, can I know and share it with you?”

Andrew drew his wife’s head down upon his shoulder, so that she might
not see the look of anguish which he knew was on his face. His lips
trembled for a moment ere he replied, and he looked out of the window
wistfully, longingly, as if he were trying to banish an evil spirit or
conjure a protecting one. “What should trouble me, my sweetheart? Have I
not the dearest wife in all the land, the mother of my cherub child?
Mrs. Bradley is an old busy body, who delights in scenting mysteries.
Tell her if she inquires after my health again, that I am losing my
reason because of the fatality with which the number thirteen pursues
me. That will set her into a new train of thought. I believe number
thirteen is one of the hobbies she is riding at present.”

“Nonsense, Andrew, you are only fooling. You are too sensible to let
anything so simple annoy you, but I am forgetting my errand. We have an
invitation to a birthday fetê, and barbecue at Oakdale, the Parker’s
country seat, you know. The festivities are to occupy three days, and
they begin next week Tuesday. We can easily drive there in a day, by
resting our horses. We can start Monday and return Friday.”

Again Andrew’s face clouded with that indescribable melancholy look. “I
cannot go, dear one, but I will not deprive you of what I know may be
pleasure. Go, take Mary with you, and remain as long as you like.”

“There it is again, Andrew. You deprive yourself of all pleasure just
because of these old law papers. I have a mind to come in here some time
when you are out, and burn the whole business, only I can never gain an
entrance when you are not here. One would think you had treasures untold
stored here the way you guard this room. Why, Andrew, we have been
married seven years and we have never even taken our wedding journey.
You could never spare the time.”

Andrew stroked the little rings of hair from off his wife’s forehead,
and kissed her with a remorseful look in his eyes which she did not see.
“Do you chafe under this quiet home life, dear one? Would you like a
change? If so take our child and visit England.”

“Not without you, Andrew. When I have been absent for only a day I can
see how my absence annoys you. I can see with what joy I am welcomed
home again, and Andrew, it is not my neighbor alone who has noticed the
change in you. I, too, have watched this growing melancholy which shuts
you so completely within yourself. Sometimes I have seen you clasp Mary
to you with such fervor as to frighten the child, and your eyes look at
her so strangely, as if you feared some harm might come to her.”

Andrew unloosed his clasp and strode nervously to the window, and stood
for some time gazing out. What were his thoughts? Who but his God could
know? Suddenly he turned and once again took his wife in his arms.
“Victoria, have you ever regretted becoming my wife? Has there been at
any time cause for regret on your part?”

“Never, Andrew. You have been all that a most tender, devoted husband
could ever be. In fact when I have seen your anger displayed toward
others, I have often wondered how it is that to me, who gives you ample
provocation, you are so kind and tender.”

He placed his hand under her chin and looked into her eyes. “Do you
still mourn for Roger? Are you satisfied with my love and devotion? Do
you think that if he had lived he could have cared for you better than
I?”

Victoria burst into tears. “You are cruel, Andrew. In this continual
referring to a dead past which can never be recalled, you hurt me. Have
I not told you that I can never love you with that freshness which I
gave to Roger? Were you not at the time contented to take me with a
bleeding heart, which since then God has mercifully healed by giving
unto me my blessed Mary? Why, then, will you persist in opening this old
wound?”

“Because I long for you to give me the same worshipping love which I
lavish upon you, dear wife.”

Victoria shook her head. “That would be impossible, Andrew. Even Roger,
though he loved me, did not give me the tender devotion which at all
times you have done. I hardly think any woman of my acquaintance can say
truthfully that in seven years of married life, they have never received
a word of blame or censure from their husbands. I am proud that I can
say it. Few women are blessed with such devotion as falls to my lot. No
woman lives who could return it in like manner.”

Andrew clasped her closer. “You love me better than you did at first,
Victoria?”

“Why should I not? To others you are cold and unapproachable. To me and
Mary you are all tenderness and love. God bless you.”

Andrew shivered as if a cold wind had penetrated his being, and put his
hand before his eyes. “Don’t, Victoria!” he said, in an unsteady tone.
“Ask God to curse me. If there be a God, He surely will.”

“Andrew, husband, I beg of you to cease that scoffing tone which seems
to be growing upon you. Say there is a God. Not ‘if there be a God.’ You
know there is, or why are we permitted to live? Do not let Mary grow up
with the knowledge of having an infidel father. For her sake, if not for
mine, be like other people. Accompany us to church next Sabbath. You
have never entered one since our marriage.”

“We will not argue this point, Victoria,” said Andrew, gently, but
firmly. “I shall never enter any church while I am in this frame of
mind. I am hypocrite enough without adding to my sin, God knows, if
there is such a being.”

“What sin, Andrew! Why do you speak so wildly?”

Andrew tried to laugh. “Are we not all sinners, Victoria, in the sight
of that God in whom you believe?”

“Ah, yes,” sighed Victoria. “We are, indeed, miserable sinners; but you
frightened me when you spoke so wildly, and you give rise to very
unpleasant comments by your morbid, unfriendly ways. Can I not coax you
to think better of your hasty decision, and so attend this barbecue with
me?”

“Ask anything of me but to absent myself from home, dear wife. That I
cannot do.”

Victoria turned to leave the room. Andrew’s troubled eyes followed her.
“You are not angry with me, Victoria?”

“No, it would be silly of me to become angry over so simple a thing, but
I am puzzled at your strange manner, Andrew. I fear you are concealing
something which I ought to know.”

Andrew sank into a chair as Victoria left the room, and as he laid his
head upon the table a heavy groan came from his white, trembling lips.
Now that he was alone all the gayety of manner assumed to deceive
Victoria left him, and the wretched man writhed in agony of spirit,
until the drops of moisture rolled from his face, and covered the
manuscript lying upon the table with great unsightly blots. “Concealing
something which she ought to know,” he murmured. “Great God! if she only
knew, if she only knew. If I dared tell her would the telling bring me
peace? Would it bring me a sweet dreamless sleep, such as I have not
known in fifteen years? Christ! Fifteen eternities have I lived in these
years, but if I tell her I shall loose her, and ah, more bitter still, I
shall loose my sunbeam, my little Mary. No, no, I can not, dare not tell
her. She is beginning to love me. In time she will forget _him_ and
then, ah, what bliss will be mine when I shall hear her say ‘I love thee
better than ever I loved thy brother.’ I scoff at religion in her
presence, and pretend that I think there is no God, but merciful Father!
do I not know that some day I shall be called to account for my crimes?
That there is no hope for me in this world nor the next? Then, how dare
I bend my knee in reverence and piety, when nothing but evil thoughts
throng my brain?”

At this moment the door quietly opened and the roguish face of a child
of six years peeped slyly in. Her laughing eyes grew serious as she
heard the sobs of her father. She held a hideous rag doll in her arms,
and as she stole on tip toe into the room, she placed one chubby finger
on the slit where the doll’s mouth was supposed to be and whispered:
“Don’t dare to breathe, Dinah. Don’t make the weentiest bit of noise,
for poor papa has one of his bad, nasty headaches, and you will be sent
from the room in disgrace. Now mind.” The child gravely put her hand
upon her father’s knee, and as he gave a guilty start, she asked: “Is it
very, very bad, dear papa? Can your comfort charm it away?”

Andrew snatched the child to his breast, and covered her face with
kisses. This little one was the only being in all the great world to
whom he dare show his heart. He nestled his face in the thick flaxen
curls on his darling’s head. He was called a hard man by his fellow men.
His servants knew him only as a relentless taskmaster, whose lightest
word must be obeyed, but the child in his arms had never heard one harsh
word from him, or seen other than a loving smile on her father’s face
when in his presence; and she gave him love for love. She passionately
adored the stern, gloomy-faced man, whose heart opened at her bidding as
a flower opens to the sun. “I told Dinah you was sick, and so she
mustn’t talk,” said the child, patting her father’s cheek, “and I think
she deserves a merit card for her good behavior. She hasn’t said a
word.”

The father started, and looked around the room, expecting to see a third
person, but seeing nobody, he said: “And who may Dinah be, my angel?”

Mary raised the dilapidated doll. “Just as if you didn’t know, Papa
Willing, when you have kissed my ownest own Dinah lots of times. There,
there, don’t cry, baby, because papa has forgotten you. We shall not
love him any more.” Mary soothed the imaginary crying baby so tenderly,
and with so sweet an air of gravity, much like Victoria when soothing
Mary’s childish grief, that Andrew laughed in spite of his gloomy
thoughts, and caught Mary’s face between his hands. “You are a little
witch,” he said, kissing the roguish face. “You are putting on all that
love. Dinah is only a bundle of rags. You don’t love her.”

“I truly do,” replied Mary, clasping Dinah closer. “I love her best of
all my children. She is _so_ sweet.”

“She must be,” laughed Andrew. “Why she is simply disreputable. Where is
the handsome Paris doll I gave you only last week?”

“Shut up in the clothes press. She put on airs before Dinah, just
because she had real eyes and hair. I could not have that, you know, so
into the clothes press she went, and she don’t come out until she begs
Dinah’s pardon.”

“And where is Miss Flora McFlimsey, who has been the reigning favorite
for quite a while?” asked Andrew, amused at the prattle of his innocent
child.

“Oh, I drowned her in the lake this morning. Tied a couple of stones to
her legs, and then threw her in; and oh, papa, she sunk beautiful, and
the cunningest little whirlpool came up where she dropped in.”

“Horrors!” ejaculated Andrew in feigned amazement. “What a blood-thirsty
little girl you are! Why, if I am permitted to ask, did you kill her?”

“I didn’t kill her, papa, only just drowned her. I know the very spot.
Dan can wade out and get her any time. I mean she shall stay there until
she becomes a better child. She hooked all the raspberry jam from the
preserve-closet, this morning.”

“You don’t tell me,” said Andrew, seriously. “How did you discover that
it was she?”

“Her face was covered with it, just actually ‘smeared’ as mamma says.”

“Was there any jam on your face, chickie?”

Mary looked up and caught the twinkle in her father’s eye.

“Only just a little, where I happened to kiss Flora before she was
washed.”

“Oh, you are a sham,” laughed Andrew, hugging the little maid close to
his heart. “Have you told mamma about the jam?”

“Not yet, papa. I heard the groom telling the stable boy yesterday,
‘never to do anything to-day that he could put off till to-morrow,’ so I
think I’ll not tell mamma till to-morrow.”

“What a philosopher I have here,” said Andrew, drawing the flaxen curls
through his fingers, “but did you not misunderstand Teddy? Did he not
say: ‘Never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day?’”

“He may have said that,” replied Mary, nodding her small head, “but I
like the other way a heap better.”

“You are not alone, dear child,” said Andrew, a gloom settling upon his
face again. “Most people like to transpose the good old adage. I among
them,” he sighed.

Mary looked up quickly. She was quick to note these sudden changes in
her father. “I love you, papa. I do love you, best of anybody in all
this world.”

“Do you love me better than you love your mamma?” whispered Andrew
longingly.

The child laid her cool cheek against the hot face of her father, and
clasped him about the neck. “I love you first; then I love mamma; next I
love Grandma Willing, who has gone to heaven, and then I love Dinah.
Poor Dinah. Teddy threw her into a bucket of dirty water yesterday, and
she doesn’t look very clean, and then the mean thing laughed, so he
did.”

Oh, what sweet music was the prattle of this child to Andrew. Her baby
love and caressing ways was all the heaven which he ever expected to
enjoy. With his child in his arms he forgot for a time the sword of
Damocles suspended by a hair, and which might fall at any moment and
crush him. Few moments in Andrew Willing’s life could justly be called
happy ones, but when he looked back over the sin-laden years, he did not
regret what he had done, except that the knowledge of his sin being
known might tear from him the only two beings whom he loved. He looked
after Mary as she ran from the room hugging the beloved Dinah. “Proclaim
my sin,” he murmured, “and by so doing become a jail-bird, shut away
forever from my wife and child? Never! I may suffer all the tortures of
the dammed, but I will still keep my secret. I must go more into
society, or Victoria, with her keen intuition, will surely discover
something, and I must also fill the house with guests. It will, perhaps,
serve to drive these demons away which so harass me.”

He stepped out of the window, went down the veranda steps, and took the
avenue leading to the lake. With bent head and eyes fixed moodily upon
the ground, he walked along. He was envied by many people for his wide
domains and apparent prosperity. Men who had met with adversity would
turn to their neighbors and say: “Talk of luck, why look at Andrew
Willing. He is the luckiest dog going. Everything he touches turns to
gold. His tobacco crops are always the finest. His negroes never sicken
and die. Everything runs smoothly with him. Even his blind brother was
conveniently killed in a railway accident, and Andrew profits again as
usual by taking the fair widow along with the property.” But if these
men could have looked deep into this wretched man’s heart; if they could
have known the misery and tortures which every hour in the day he
endured, then would their envy have been turned to pity, guilty though
he might be. Andrew had been trying for ten years to stifle his
conscience, which seemed to grow more active with advancing years, and
would not be stilled. At the turn in the avenue he stopped, and looked
back at the old gabled house in which he had spent so many happy hours;
which also held the beings whom he adored, but alas, a home filled with
grinning demons, whose devilish, hideous whisperings in his ears
whenever he entered, were driving him to the verge of madness. He smote
his breast remorsefully as his eyes wandered over the house, and rested
for a moment on the highest gable which had once been the room of his
father’s favorite slave, but whose stained glass windows had been
boarded up for over thirty years. “Peace, peace!” he cried. “Will I ever
know peace again until I have made reparation to those I have wronged?
And when I have done so, what then? A felon’s cell or a suicide’s grave
will be all I shall have to look forward to. Oh, God! I cannot. I
cannot. Let fate do her worst. I will keep my secret.”




                              CHAPTER II.


Shortly after this everything about “The Gables” seemed to take on new
life. Andrew had bade Victoria make ready and issue invitations for a
grand fête, which should be given on a scale of magnificence never
equalled, and which should hold a week. Victoria was thunderstruck. This
indeed was a new departure for her husband, who had tabooed all society
for nearly ten years, and who now chose to plunge headlong as it were
into gayeties to which he was wholly a stranger. It is no wonder that
she looked apprehensively at him, and wondered if he had not suddenly
taken leave of his senses, but knowing his dislike to being questioned
she merely asked: “How many invitations shall I issue, Andrew?”

“As many as the house will hold without crowding, Victoria. We can
accommodate nearly a hundred who may come from a distance. The lodge
will room twenty more. We can erect a temporary barracks for the men who
come unaccompanied by ladies, so I think with the neighboring gentry who
will, of course return home at night, you can get out three hundred
invitations. I will get the necessary lumber and have the men begin
erecting whatever is needful at once. Will this please you, my love?”

“It certainly ought to,” laughed Victoria. “Why, Andrew, the expense
will be frightful.”

“It will not exceed ten thousand dollars, Victoria, and I shall never
miss so small a sum. Even if it is twice that amount I shall not
grumble. We have received many pressing invitations from friends. It is
but courtesy on our part to return them. See that there is an abundance
of everything, dear wife. There will be plenty of time to order anything
you wish from New York. You have my consent to go in as deeply as you
may desire.” And Victoria decided to obey her husband to the letter, and
to make the fête one to be long remembered.

When it became known that “The Gables” was to be thrown open to the
public, that everybody far and near had been invited by its master, the
people could hardly believe the startling news. Very few had ever been
inside the grand salon and reception-rooms, and those who had been so
favored, had much to tell of their magnificence, and of the rare
paintings and works of art with which the rooms were adorned. If Andrew
was unpopular, Victoria was not, so there were very few regrets sent,
and as the week approached, not a few anxious glances were cast at the
threatening clouds which presaged bad weather; but the first day of the
fête dawned cloudless, and before night every room in the spacious old
house had been assigned to an occupant. Andrew laid aside his reserve,
and proved himself to be a prince of entertainers. Victoria was amazed
at this sudden transformation, and after seven years of married life saw
her husband in an entirely different character, and also it was one
which became him well. The first night was spent in all getting
acquainted with one another, or in renewing old acquaintance, and in
visiting the picture-gallery and other places of interest. The second
day was to be devoted to the hunt. At night there was to be a hunt ball,
and the grand ball-room was to be opened to the public for the first
time in thirty-five years.

It was a merry party which assembled before the main entrance the
morning of the hunt to say au revoir for a few hours to the hostess and
those ladies who did not hunt. The gentlemen in their scarlet coats and
buckskin breeches were bright bits of color among the more sombre
riding-habits of the ladies, and Andrew, who sat his horse with a grace
not equalled by any man present, noted the look of wifely pride on
Victoria’s face, as she waved him an adieu with Mary perched upon her
shoulder. The lady riding by his side saw the tender expression on his
face as he kissed his fingers to Victoria, and as their horses cantered
slowly down the avenue, she said: “You have a most charming wife, Mr.
Willing, and the little one is simply cherubic.”

Andrew glanced at his companion. She was young and extremely beautiful.
Rumor said that for three seasons she had been a reigning belle in New
York and Baltimore society, and that, strange to relate, she cared more
for the society of middle-aged men than for that of men nearer her own
age. Was she fishing for a compliment, thinking that Andrew, as scores
of other men might have done, would at once begin a flirtation on the
strength of the few words of praise bestowed upon his wife? All this
flashed through Andrew’s mind as he watched the blooming color, like the
heart of a sea shell, come and go on the riante face of his fair guest.
His dark, mournful eyes, whose sadness was their greatest charm, looked
straight into the melting blue ones so near him while he said: “There is
no woman on this earth to equal her, Miss Marchon. There never will be
for me. Without her and the child, who is a part of us, my life would
become a void. I should not care to live.”

A slightly sarcastic smile curved the beautiful lips of his hearer.
“Such devotion after nearly fifteen years of married life is truly
commendable, Mr. Willing. So you never have desired to bask in the
smiles of any other fair lady?”

Andrew saw the drift which the conversation was beginning to take. It
was as he had thought. His beautiful guest was endeavoring to draw him
into a perhaps harmless flirtation, but nevertheless, in his loyalty to
Victoria, one which would be extremely distasteful to him. He resolved
to at once nip this evident admiration of Miss Marchon for himself in
the bud. He turned his horse and pointed with his whip to “The Gables,”
which in the next turn of the avenue would be lost to their view. “That
house holds all I care for in the world. No woman, not even if she
possessed the wiles of a Cleopatra, could turn my allegiance from the
angel we have left behind. Other women when compared with her seem
soulless, dead, devoid of all those graces which she alone possesses. My
God, how I love her! It is something more than love. It is adoration,
worship, an unquenchable fire, which, when I hold her in my arms burns
with a fever heat. Ah, Miss Marchon, few women are loved with the
devotion which I give Victoria. When I say that to save her one heart
pang I would die for her, they are not idle words. They come from a
heart whose every drop of blood flows for her.”

He lowered his whip, and they rode on in silence. Andrew’s dreamy,
melancholy eyes had no further charm for Miss Marchon. He could not be
drawn into a flirtation, be it ever so mild, so, as they joined the rest
of the party she gradually drew away from him, and attached herself to
the side of the governor of the state, who was a widower, and a noted
gallant. Her bright beauty soon captivated him, and before long she had
given him her views of their host.

“He is a boor; a perfect numskull. He does not know enough to compliment
any lady but his wife, and his ravings about her are ridiculous in the
extreme.”

“Do you mean to say that he has been in your charming society for a
whole hour; has looked into those glorious eyes; has gazed upon those
tempting lips; and yet has been so ungallant as not to have seemed to
appreciate so much loveliness, and his own good fortune in being near
it?” inquired the governor, bending from his saddle to touch lightly
with his gloved hand the damask cheek of his companion.

“Even so,” she replied, giving him a bewitching smile.

“Then he is indeed all that you have called him and a great deal more.
He is wanting in courtesy, but then you must excuse him on the plea of
his not having been in society of late. He has withdrawn from the world
so completely since that dreadful accident to his brother, of which he
was an eye-witness, and which for a time ’tis said unbalanced his mind
so that he has acted strangely ever since. His wife was also his
brother’s, you no doubt know?”

“No, indeed. This is news,” replied Miss Marchon, eagerly, woman-like,
scenting a romance. “Do tell me all about it, dear governor. I know very
little regarding them except what Mrs. Lewis, where I am visiting, has
told me. She said that the Willings were people a little eccentric, but
it would not do to slight them in any way, as they are immensely
wealthy, and their ancestors were among the bluest blood of England’s
peers, and that the present Mrs. Willing is a titled English lady, who
dropped her title upon marrying an American.”

“All of which is very true,” rejoined the governor, “but what I shall
tell you borders on the romantic. Roger and Andrew Willing were twin
brothers, and as unlike as you can imagine. I knew them both from
childhood. Roger was one of the finest fellows I ever knew. Jolly, full
of jokes, and always ready for a good time. He had the handsomest blue
eyes I ever saw, excepting, of course, these at my side.”

Miss Marchon was one of the few women who can blush conveniently and at
just the right time. A delicious rosy wave of color dyed her cheeks, and
she laughingly tapped her admirer with her whip. “Go on, go on, you
flatterer,” she cried, “I am becoming deeply interested. I wish I might
have known this Roger Willing whose picture you sketch so charmingly.”

“You can see his portrait in the large gallery, Miss Marchon, taken in
the heyday of his youth, but it does not do him justice. Well, as I was
saying, he was a fellow beloved by everybody, and was so different from
his twin brother, who was always as you see him now; moody, quiet, and
sadly wanting in gallantry toward the fair sex, and if I am not
mistaken, a little jealous of his more popular brother. Then when Roger
was in his twenty-second year, just when life looked the fairest to him,
he lost his eyesight in a powder explosion during a Fourth of July
celebration in New York.”

“How very sad!” exclaimed Miss Marchon. “Those beautiful eyes! It must
have been a serious affliction to him.”

“It was; but he was a fellow who always looked on the bright side of
everything, and you can imagine how surprised all society was, when it
became known that only two months after his accident, he had been
quietly married to Lady Victoria Vale, who was visiting his mother, and
who had fallen violently in love with the invalid, and he with her.”

“Oh, how romantic!” cried Miss Marchon, clapping her hands. “Just like a
novel. Pray, hasten, governor.”

“Yes, very romantic, but nevertheless a most unfortunate marriage. Lady
Vale had higher views for her daughter, and was much displeased, so she
left immediately for England, and never became reconciled even when her
child was made a widow, and Rumor says she is not pleased with this
second marriage, but I am digressing. It seemed as if nothing but
ill-fortune followed this hasty bridal, for Andrew and his mother had
some high words over a matter which no one has ever been able to
discover, and the poor lady died that night in a paralytic fit.”

“How dreadful! Why, it seems almost like a fatality, does it not,
governor?”

“Almost, Miss Marchon; but Lady Victoria’s troubles were not over by any
means, for less than five years after her marriage, Roger was killed in
a railway accident and brought home a shapeless bit of flesh, to be
buried in the family plot beside his mother, whose favorite he had
always been, and from whom he was not long separated.”

Here Miss Marchon brushed a few pearly tears—which had conveniently
appeared just at the right moment—from her blue eyes. “It is so
affecting,” she said in excuse, as the governor watched her admiringly.

“It only shows what a tender little heart it has,” he said, riding close
to her, and softly brushing her eyes with his own daintily monogrammed
cambric.

“Is there more?” she inquired, putting up her face in the most innocent
manner, and squeezing out still another tear which was tenderly taken
care of by the devoted governor.

“I wish there was more so that I might still perform this pleasant
task,” he said, as he lingered long over the last tear, “but there is
nothing of any interest except that Andrew profited much by his
brother’s death, and not three years after, married the widow who had
seemed inconsolable at first. She is certainly a most beautiful woman,
but she is no longer in the full bloom of youth, and not to be compared
with the charmer by my side in whom her husband can see no beauty.”

“Oh, you are a naughty man,” cried Miss Marchon, “you don’t mean a word
you have said, and for punishment I shall ride on and join Miss Fairley,
who has no companion.”

“Ah! do not be so cruel,” exclaimed the governor, catching her horse’s
bridle. “The hunt will have no pleasures for me, if you desert me. Pray
remove that glove that I may see your hand. Ah, it is still unfettered.”
He caught the white hand and pressed it to his lips. “May I, dare I
hope, that this little hand shall be mine for——”

Miss Marchon turned away her head, so that he should not see the smile
of triumph on her lips. Here was a proposal worth accepting, but she
would not make haste to jump at it too quickly. She must appear
diffident, coy, and quite innocently maidenish, although she had passed
the rubicon some time before and was anything but an amateur in
conducting love affairs to the desired point. His finishing words,
however, brought her reverie to the ground with a thud, which she felt
if no one else did, and she could have struck him in the face as he
wound up with—“several dances at the ball to-night?”

For a moment she lost her head and came near bursting into tears. How
glad she was that she had turned her head away. When she _did_ look
toward him her face was wreathed in smiles, and with a bewitching
gesture, she replied: “As many dances as you wish dear governor. How can
I refuse when asked in such a charming manner? But see, our party is
already at the field. We are way in the rear. Come, let us hasten, or
they will start without us.

And so ended the brief dream of Miss Marchon of some day becoming a
governor’s lady, for he never proposed, but rode away when the fetê was
ended, and she never saw him more.

Andrew opened the ball that night with Miss Marchon, and her unwilling
ears were obliged to listen, while he berated the custom which tabooed
him from dancing the first figure with his wife. Victoria, feeling
happier than at any time since her marriage, was dancing with the
governor, and as Andrew watched the face so dear to him, and noted every
changing mood from grave to gay, from laughter to serious thought, he
did not regret the step he had taken in throwing open his doors to this
“howling mob,” as he called it, much as it was distasteful to him. He
watched the governor as he bent in a most lover-like attitude over
Victoria, and although he knew that Victoria was no flirt, yet the
attention of any man toward his wife stirred something within him which
if not exactly jealousy was very near akin to it. What man but himself
had a right to clasp that slender waist, or press the exquisite figure
of his loved one, perhaps with more tenderness than was at all
necessary. He could hardly wait for the figure to be ended, so eager was
he to join his wife, and with scarcely a word he led Miss Marchon to a
seat, and crossed the room to where Victoria sat surrounded by a crowd
of gallants.

She looked up with a bright smile as Andrew approached. “How charmingly
Miss Marchon and you dance together,” she said, as he bent over her. “Is
she not royally beautiful? I call her the most beautiful and the best
dressed lady here.”

“I had not thought of her beauty,” replied Andrew, glancing at the
sweet, serious face of Victoria, “and as for her costume I cannot tell
you whether it be black or white. All women look alike to me save one,
Victoria. That one I have deified. She stands a queen among her lesser
satellites, and overshadows them all.”

Victoria looked up into her husband’s face. His eyes were full of
slumbering passion, ready to burst into flame at a kind word from her.
The other men had left them alone as Andrew began speaking to his wife,
and somehow, as Victoria caught the fire in her husband’s eyes,
something which she had not felt before stirred within her. A tremor,
delicious in its vagueness, shot through her veins, and she thought:
“Can this be love which I feel coming to me? Love for a man whom I have
said I hated?” She laid her fan upon his arm. “How much you do love me,
Andrew? I wonder if there be another man in this ball-room who is saying
such devoted words to his wife as I am hearing?”

“No,” replied Andrew, “for no man loves his wife with the strength of
passion which you inspire in me. Plenty are devoting themselves to the
entertainment of other men’s wives, leaving their own neglected, or to
be led into a flirtation which belittles them in the eyes of serious
people. The men are vain and careless of the reputation of those who
should be the most cherished by them. The women are silly and frivolous,
and so the world moves on, and this reminds me that I have a request to
ask of you, my darling. Will you dance with nobody but me to-night? I do
not care for any partner but your sweet self, and you may deem me very
silly, but I cannot see you in the arms of any one of these men who are
so inferior to you, without a jealous pang.”

Victoria laughed. “What an idea, Andrew. Would you monopolize your wife
at your own ball? What will people say?”

“I don’t give a continental for what people may say. I want you for
myself. What is your decision, sweetheart?”

“Of course I will do as you wish, Andrew. I don’t care to dance a very
great deal. What I have promised I can no doubt get excused from.”

“Then do. Are you promised for the next? Yes, I see you are. I will at
once seek your partner and get a substitute in your place. Then I shall
claim my rights. Do you know, sweet wife, that this will be our first
dance together? Can you imagine how eager I am to try my step with
yours?”

He pressed her hand to his lips and left her. She watched him treading
his way among the crowd. Surely she had every reason to be proud of him,
and she ought to love him. Such devotion was certainly worthy of a
return. Then she thought of that other husband, asleep under the freshly
cut flowers which Mary and herself had strewn upon his bed that morning.
Every morning ere the sun was up she took Mary, and together they walked
to the pines where Roger lay, and laid their tribute of affection over
the quiet sleeper. Andrew knew of these early visits but he never
objected as any other man might have done under the circumstances, and
as she sat there thinking of his careful tenderness for her and their
child; of his patient love which had grown instead of diminished during
nearly eight years of married life; how he had bourne without any
outward signs of how it hurt him, her days of lamentations for Roger,
when she had shut her door against everybody including her beloved
child, and refused to be comforted. As she thought of all these things
she saw her selfishness in many ways, and she resolved to gradually drop
those early visits, and by so doing remove one thorn from Andrew’s path,
for it had been a thorn to him she well knew. This morbid love of hers
for the dead who could never return. She welcomed him with a smile when
he returned, and he saw that in her face which was new to him. He looked
at her searchingly.

“Have you been communing with unseen spirits, Victoria?” he said, as he
led her upon the floor, “your face is angelic.”

“Yes,” she replied, looking up to him with a strange light in her eyes.
“I have seen a vision which I never expected to behold. A vision of love
in which only you and I, and our child were the central figures.”

He understood, and for a moment, strong man that he was, he reeled under
the exquisite meaning conveyed in her words. She was beginning to love
him. She had put Roger away out of her thoughts. He placed his arm about
her to begin the figure, and he pressed her to him with such passion as
to crush the flowers at her bodice. “Don’t, Andrew,” she whispered, “you
hurt me; besides, people about us are remarking your actions.”

“The whole world may see and comment,” he replied, as he strained her to
him again. “I could shout it out from the house tops, I am so happy. I
feel as if I were drunk, Victoria. Drunk with joy. Have I not waited for
eight long weary years to hear the blessed words? Ah, if I had you
alone, away from this gaping crowd, I would kneel before you and worship
you as a divinity. My God! was ever woman so sweet as you? Was ever man
so blessed as I? Will this ball ever come to an end?”

Indeed, Andrew in his ecstatic state of mind was nearer being a madman
than a rational creature, and seemed to have thrown aside melancholy,
and he entered into the sports of the ball with a zest equal to the
youngest gallant there. Not until the revel was over, and he had sought
his study for a few moments before retiring, as was his custom no matter
how late the hour, did he remember the sword suspended by a single hair.
Ah, yes, now it came back to him with cruel force after the sweet
assurance held out to him by Victoria. With a maddening rush, all the
simple events of the past ten years crowded upon his brain in a seething
whirlpool, and beating his breast with his clenched hands, the strong
man fell upon his knees, and for the first time in his life prayed God
to forgive him his sins while he wept like a child. Ah, he was not
without a conscience, which goaded and pricked him sharply. He had no
need to wear a garment of hair next his flesh to remind him of a sin for
which to do penance, and now—now that he knew Victoria was his; that in
time she would give to him the sweet love for which he so craved, his
sins looked more heinous than ever, yet he could not bring himself to
confess them, for fear of losing both Victoria and his child; and he
seemed to see written in letters of fire upon the study wall the words:
“Be sure in time your sins will be discovered. Repent then, and
confess.”

“I cannot! I cannot!” cried the miserable man, in answer to those
unspoken words, yet which were visible to _his_ eye. “If my soul goes to
torment I cannot confess. God help me!”




                              CHAPTER III.


The week of the fête ended as it had begun, with sunshine and cloudless
skies. It had been pronounced simply perfect by everybody, who upon
leaving, congratulated their host and hostess upon the successful
termination of their more than delightful fête. Among themselves
opinions were exchanged regarding the master and mistress of “the Five
Gables.” All agreed that Mrs. Willing had proved a charming hostess,
with whom the most exacting could not find a grain of fault, but that
Mr. Willing, although courtly in manner and very agreeable, was absurdly
in love with his wife, so much so as to appear ridiculous in the eyes of
his female visitors, who could have forgiven any other fault in their
host more willingly, than this very unfashionable one of showing a
preference for his own wife while other ladies were by.

Meanwhile affairs at “the Five Gables” resumed the even tenor of their
way, which had been disturbed by the events of the past week. Andrew
sunk into a chair as the last guest disappeared, and with a huge sigh of
relief, took Mary upon his knee, who loudly wailed at seeing all her
little playmates depart, and would not be comforted.

“Hush, hush, my darling,” said Andrew, kissing the great tears coursing
down the cheeks of the child. “Papa will get you anything you wish, only
cease this crying, you will make yourself ill.”

“But—but I—but I want Lilian to return,” sobbed Mary. “She’s a dear,
and—and I love her, if she _did_ stick pins into poor Dinah and call her
a fright; and—and she has—she has such lovely long hair which I can pull
when I get real mad at her.”

“Ah!” laughed Andrew, “there is method in this violent grief. You have
not been so unladylike as to pull Miss Lilian’s hair, I hope?”

“Oh, heaps of times, papa. She liked it.”

“No doubt,” again laughed Andrew. “It must be an exquisite sensation.
What did Miss Lilian do while you were pulling her hair?”

“She bit me, here and here.” Mary displayed two red marks, evidently
made by four very sharp teeth.

“Upon my soul, chickie, your love-making was of a very tender nature.
You pull her hair; she bites you, and still you lament her departure and
wish her to return.”

“Of course,” replied Mary, sententiously.

“Why of course?” asked her father.

“Because of course I love her. She is the dearest girl I know. She hugs
just be-yew-tiful.”

Victoria came in at this moment and Andrew drew her to him. “I am glad
we are alone once more,” he said. “One such kick-up will do for a life
time.”

“But it has been very enjoyable, Andrew. Everybody has gone away
delighted. I have heard so many pleasant things said about you, and it
has made me glad. I feel very proud of my noble husband.”

She placed her hand upon his head. He caught it and carried it to his
lips. “I am rewarded,” he said, looking lovingly into her eyes. “I would
do it all over again to hear such sweet words from the lips I adore.”

“But there is something I wish to ask you, Andrew. Run away to Chloe, my
darling,” she continued, stooping to kiss Mary, “mamma wishes to be
alone with papa.”

As Mary left the room she turned again to Andrew, a slight shade of
annoyance on her face. “Is there a room in this house which I know
nothing of, Andrew? A room in the western gable which I have always
supposed was false?”

Andrew’s face became ashen pale. His eyes sought the floor. He dared not
look at Victoria. Wild thoughts flashed through his brain. Who had told
her? How much did she know? With an effort he mastered his emotions, but
he kept his eyes upon the floor. “Who has been filling you with silly
tales, Victoria?”

“Mrs. Bradley said——”

“Ah! that busybody,” exclaimed Andrew, tersely.

“Yes, Andrew, she seems to know more of the family history than your own
wife. She, with some other ladies and myself, was standing in the west
gallery this morning, when she said: ‘Mrs. Willing, there is one room
you have not shown us, and I, for one, am dying to see it. I have often
heard my father tell of its many lovely curios brought from foreign
lands, and its beautiful occupant long since dead. He was a boon
companion of your husband’s father.’”

“I told Mrs. Bradley that I had no knowledge of any such room and that
she must have been misinformed.”

“Oh, no indeed,” she replied. “It is in the western gable, and should
lead right out from this gallery.”

“Now I know you are mistaken,” I answered. “That gable is false. There
is no room such as you mention in the gable. Do you not see the solid
wall all along this gallery? and the gable lies directly back of it.”

“She smiled incredulously and looked at the other ladies as much as to
say: ‘She can tell us, but she won’t.’ I led the way from the gallery,
and the subject was dropped; but I have come to you for information,
Andrew. If there is any mystery about that gable you must know it, and I
should hear from your lips instead of from those of a gossip.”

As Victoria spoke Andrew’s face underwent a gradual change, and as she
finished he gravely took her on his knee. “Mrs. Bradley has laid bare
our family skeleton,” he said. “It is not pleasant to relate, but now
that a busybody has partly enlightened you, it is well that you should
know the truth instead of perhaps receiving a garbled account of it from
a stranger. You have been told that my father died from an accidental
pistol shot. So I was led to believe until my twenty-first year. Roger
believed the same; then our mother told us of the gabled room, the
knowledge of which was as much a surprise to us as it is now to you. We
had always believed the gable to be false. My father when a young man,
had fitted up in a most lavish style the western gable, making two
elegant rooms of it, filling them with all the rare things which he
could gather. Here he installed his favorite slave girl. After a time he
went to England and married my mother. The very night of their return
while he was showing my mother the house, as they went to ascend the
stairs leading to the gabled room, his slave girl, smarting from her
fancied wrongs, barred their progress and asked for freedom papers for
herself and child. My father refused her, and straightway she shot him
and then herself. Shortly after this Roger and I were born. My mother
never spoke of her sorrow to anybody, but ordered every trace of the
tragedy to be obliterated. No person ever entered the rooms after that
except to board the windows. Everything was left as its unhappy occupant
had stepped from it. The stairs were taken down and a solid wall built.
My mother never spoke of it but once on our twenty-first birthday. Never
again did I hear her allude to it in the faintest manner. That is the
story, Victoria. Do you wonder at my silence regarding it? Is it a topic
to be dwelt upon? A father’s shame and dishonor; a mother’s blighted
life?”

“No, no, my husband. I would never have asked you to tell it had I
known. Forgive me for unwittingly being the one to rake up these dead
ashes of a buried past.”

“There is nothing to forgive, dear wife. I think I feel better for the
telling. Mrs. Bradley knows not as much as I have told you, for my
mother succeeded in keeping the real facts to herself. The servants were
all freed and given money enough to go far away, so there was no
babbling. It was given out as an accident and so believed by most.”

“What became of the child?” asked Victoria.

“That went with the rest. An old aunty and her husband, who were going
to Raleigh to find their children who had been sold away from them, took
the boy with them. We have never heard from them since. My mother gave
them plenty of money and promised to send them more if they needed it,
but they never applied for more. No doubt they are dead.”

“No doubt,” replied Victoria, looking dreamily out over the fair lands
of which her husband was the sole possessor, “but I have a feeling, a
presentiment, that some day you will hear from this Ishmael who really
ought to receive some share of what was his father’s.”

Andrew smiled. “Don’t let any such foolish fancies linger in your mind,
dear wife. The laws of Virginia were made for just such cases as his. He
could not claim so much as a stone from off this plantation.”

“But, Andrew, laying all race prejudice aside, and speaking from your
heart, tell me honestly, would you not feel guilty of keeping all? Is
not a share of it your brother’s?”

“Never,” spoke Andrew decidedly. “Victoria, you are a queen among women.
You are more intelligent than any woman I know, but on such questions
allow me to be the judge. You certainly are not capable.”

He arose and paced the room excitedly. “There is one person whose
society I wish you to avoid Victoria, and that is Mrs. Bradley. When she
calls here again treat her very ceremoniously, and please do not return
her call. That woman gives me a creeping sensation whenever she come
near me. She is a human snake. Leave her entirely alone, I beg of you.
But for her this disagreeable conversation would not have occurred.
Unpleasant things like these _must_ not come up between us, my wife.
They are sure to leave thoughts in the mind which cannot easily be
forgotten. Am I right?” He stooped and kissed her.

“Yes, Andrew, you are always right. I will drop Mrs. Bradley from my
calling-list, and you shall never hear me speak again of this skeleton
in your family closet unless you first mention it. Will my doing so
please you?”

“Most certainly, Victoria. We have never had a word of disagreement
since our marriage. Do not let us begin now.”

So the subject from that day was not again referred to by either
Victoria or Andrew, but it cannot be said that neither thought of it
afterward, for Victoria, although she had none but loyal thoughts for
her husband, could not help her mind occasionally turning toward that
mysterious western gable, in which were the beautifully decorated rooms
which must now be in a state of utter decay after having been closed for
so many years. Victoria was not without her full share of curiosity, and
she often longed to speak with Andrew, and implore him to find some way
of opening a passage to the western gable, so that they might visit
those rooms and gaze upon the treasures supposed to be still there. Of
course it was a sad story, but then nearly every old family had a
skeleton of some kind in their closets, and now that the principal
actors in this tragedy were long since mouldered into dust, what harm
could be done by opening the rooms and making use of what must be the
pleasantest gable of all the five. She resolved, when the proper time
should present itself, to broach the subject to Andrew. He could only
refuse.

After this conversation Andrew spent more of his time than he had ever
done in his study. After breakfast he would repair to his study and give
orders that he was not to be disturbed by anybody unless he himself
should signify to the contrary, and often Victoria did not see him again
until the luncheon hour. Then for a few hours, usually until dinner, he
rode or drove with herself and Mary, and seemed for the time being to
throw off the melancholy which was becoming more noticeable every day,
and which Victoria gazed upon with alarm. Then shortly after dinner,
when Victoria would have prized his society the most, he again repaired
to his study, there to remain until the wee small hours, and it had
become a regular nightly habit for him to have a repast served to him
usually at midnight. Victoria had remonstrated with him until she had
become weary. She told him that his health could not always remain
perfect when subjected to such a strain; that he was growing aged far
beyond his years; but he only laughed, and stopped her mouth with a
kiss, and continued as before to immure himself within his den where
Mary alone was admitted, and she not at all times, for she often knocked
and even kicked at the closed door, and could get not so much as a word
from her father who, when she told him hours after, would reply: “Papa
cannot talk when he is writing or very busy, chickie.”

“But you might just come to the door,” persisted the child, “and say,
‘Go away, Mary, papa can’t see you just yet,’ and not keep me banging at
the door so long. I’ve listened at the keyhole many a time, and it’s so
awfully still it makes me afraid.”

And at such times Andrew would take Mary on his knee, and bury his
troubled face in the child’s clustering curls. The anguish of his heart
was plainly visible in his manner, but only his God and Mary was there
to witness it, and although the child knew that there was something
amiss, her childish mind could not fathom it. She only knew that her
father was troubled, and in her baby fashion she comforted him, calling
him “poor papa,” and smoothing the heavy lines of care upon his forehead
with soft, caressing fingers, which were as an angel’s to Andrew’s
fevered, throbbing temples. To him this child seemed nothing less than a
celestial being, lent to him by a merciful God for a time, to sooth his
tired frame, and who might be snatched from him in the twinkling of an
eye; and he clasped his treasure to him with a passion born of his
morbid fears, until the child begged to be released.

As the days grew into months Andrew’s strange melancholy increased, as
also his fancy that Mary must never be from his sight unless she were
asleep, until Victoria feared for his reason. To her his behavior was as
a tangled skein, of which she could find no end whereby she might begin
to unravel. To all her questions his invariable reply was that he felt
in the best of health; that his affairs in business were most
satisfactory, and with this she was obliged to content herself, although
it by no means reassured her. And too, his growing watchfulness over
Mary alarmed Victoria. He demanded that her crib be placed closed beside
his bed, and when Victoria surprised at the request asked the reason, he
replied that of late he had been troubled with strange dreams, and that
he thought he might rest better if he could awaken and lay his hand upon
his child. So to humor him, Victoria had Mary’s little bed removed from
her room to that adjoining, and many nights after that when Andrew came
from his study, he would bend over the sweet sleeper, touching softly
the dainty cheek, or raising a tiny hand kiss each finger passionately,
while tears which he did not strive to check, fell upon the innocent
being whom he had sinned against beyond pardon, yet whom he loved as few
children are beloved by their parents.




                              CHAPTER IV.


At last nature turns if tried beyond her limit, snapped the frail cord
which held Andrew’s mind in soundness, and in a moment that which he had
dreaded was upon him. He knew that he was insane.

One night he had repaired to his study as usual. The pressure in his
head was something almost unendurable. He felt the cord snapping, and
resolved ere it was too late, to write a letter to his wife. To write
the confession so long deferred. He took his pen and endeavored to
collect his thoughts. It was not difficult to inscribe “My Darling Wife”
at the top of the page. Then he gazed at it dreamily. Something was
wrong in those three words, but what was it? Where did the right begin,
and where did it end? He read the words over and over again aloud, so
that he might understand them more fully. Then he slowly drew his pen
through them and wrote beneath “My Cherished Victoria.” “She will know
why I did it,” he murmured. “Oh, yes, she will know.” He lingered over
the next words with a tender smile on his face. “No woman on this earth
was ever loved with the worship, adoration, which I have lavished upon
you. She knows that too,” he continued, resting his head upon one hand.
“Why do I tell her what she already knows so well? Ah, why?” He dropped
the pen and seemed to be musing, then resuming, with a fierce wild light
burning in his eyes, he wrote: “But I have also sinned grievously
against you; so grievously, that I can never hope for pardon, therefore
I have resolved to take my life, and so end it all.”

He stopped and looked wildly about him. Where was the blessed instrument
which in a moment would put him out of the torments and misery now
assailing him. He opened several drawers in his desk, and at last found
what he sought. He handled it lovingly. This little toy would give him
that peace which had fled from him for so many years. He could lie down
to a dreamless sleep and waken—where? He did not care. The unknown and
untried hereafter could be better borne than the tears and reproaches of
Victoria. He had no dread of what he should meet. If he could only
escape, only escape. He kissed the weapon which was so soon to bring him
that coveted rest, and laid it down to finish his confession.

He had just taken up his pen when a loud tattoo was beat upon the wall
nearest to where he was sitting. He arose with an air of resignation, as
if what he was about to do was a duty most irksome to him, and opening
the book-case door, placed his hand inside. Noiselessly the ponderous
case rolled forward, disclosing an aperture rather larger than a common
door. A powerful mulatto stepped into the study, and approached Andrew,
gesticulating wildly. He placed his hands to his head, and then upon his
chest, motioning toward the opening through which he had just entered.

“Is your master ill?” asked Andrew. The man nodded a quick assent.
Andrew motioned him to follow, and went quickly up the stairs which
could be plainly seen from the opening.

It was fully an hour ere he returned. He descended the stairs with a
weary, lagging step, as if every motion of his limbs was an effort. His
eyes had lost their wild, frenzied look, and seemed filled with a dull,
heavy pain. The man was suffering deeply, and as he crawled to his chair
beside the desk, and dropped into it like a log, one felt that whatever
the crisis might be, it was now near at hand.

He folded his arms upon the desk and laid his tired head upon them. Just
then Mary’s voice was heard outside the door. “Papa, I am going to bed.
I want my kiss.” He heard her but he could not answer. The latch was
lifted, the door opened, and Mary entered. For the first time Andrew had
forgotten to bolt the door. He was conscious of it. He heard Mary’s step
approaching, but some power held him fast in his chair, and he could not
rise to close the book-case which still remained open. He heard the
sweet, shrill voice in accents of pity say: “What is the matter, papa?
Is your naughty head bad again?” Then, although he did not see, he felt
that her wondering eyes had discovered the secret door. He heard her
moving from him, and he had the strength to raise his head, and watch
Mary as she laboriously climbed the stairs. He listened until his ears
could no longer distinguish her footsteps, and then buried his face—upon
which despair and ruin was plainly written—once more in his arms. The
sword had fallen, and the hair had been severed by his own child. He had
not even the strength to lift the toy lying so near him, and so escape
the wrath to come.

He heard Mary returning, and heard her running swiftly from the room.
His benumbed brain could still determine what she was about to do. She
had gone to tell her mother; but somehow, the thought did not worry him.
He felt rather glad than otherways. Presently he heard voices. Mary was
bringing Victoria. A wild thought flashed through his mind. With an
effort he grasped the revolver. He would slay Victoria and the child as
they entered, and then himself. At the same instant the toy fell from
his nerveless fingers. Ah, no, he could not harm a hair of those so
precious to him. Only himself. Only himself; but he did not feel equal
to it, just now, and it would shock Victoria. He must wait. Again his
head sunk upon his arms.

Victoria entered, her face white and fearful, with Mary clinging to her
skirts. She glanced toward the aperture, and approached the wretched
man. “Andrew, what is this Mary has been telling me? The child is nigh
frightened out of her senses. She declares she has been up some hidden
stairs, into rooms which she has never seen before, and there she saw a
big negro standing by a bed in which an old man was sleeping. When the
negro saw her, he ran at her as if to beat her, and the child came
running to me. Is all this true? I can see the secret staircase for
myself, but who is the old man, and what does all this mystery mean?”

There was no answer from the bowed figure.

Mary gently shook him. “I have had no share in your secrets, Andrew.
Perhaps it were better if I had, but now I demand an answer. Have I your
permission to ascend those stairs which I have already divined lead to
the rooms in the western gable? Shall I see for myself what those rooms
contain?”

“Yes, go!” hoarsely answered Andrew.

Victoria turned to leave him. He raised his head and caught her gown
with his hand.

“Victoria!” he cried, “my angel! My more than life! Go, I dare not
detain you. God has spoken to me. The time has now come; but my darling,
keep what you shall see there a secret for Mary’s sake, and remember
that I did it all out of my great overpowering love for you.” He kissed
the hem of her gown and sank upon his knees as she wonderingly turned
and ascended the stairs. His agonized eyes watched her disappear, and
then his hand sought that thing which should give him peace. He groped
for it. He had not the strength to reach it, and with a groan he fell
forward upon his face.

Victoria had not a suspicion of what she was about to behold. Many
strange wild thoughts floated through her mind as she ascended the
stairs. The foremost one was that Andrew’s father had not been killed,
as had been believed, but that he was an imbecile perhaps, and so had
been confined in these apartments for years. Yes, this must be it. She
trembled violently as she reached the topmost stair, and stood gazing
into the room beyond. It was vacant. No person was in sight, but
scattered about the room were several toys such as very small children
are amused with. A rattle box, a tin horn, and a drum. Victoria saw, and
her eyes also noted the luxurious furnishings of the apartment, which
was octagon in shape; and the walls were hung with very rare tapestries,
which although faded, she knew were of immense value. How often she had
wanted to investigate these rooms, but now that the opportunity had
come, she felt an irresistable desire to turn and go back to Andrew, and
be content with what he should tell her. A vague dread of what she might
see in the further room, stayed her footsteps, and she turned to descend
the stairs, but Mary who had become brave now that her mother was with
her, pulled at Victoria’s gown and cried: “Come mamma, into the other
room, the negro won’t dare to touch me now that you are with me. The old
man in the bed looks so funny. Do come, mamma.”

Victoria turned again, and with hesitating steps went toward the further
room, whose door stood open. The violent trembling which had left her
for a moment returned now and her limbs shook under her so that she was
scarcely able to stand. She steadied herself by clasping the door with
her hands, while she gazed fascinated into that mysterious room, of
which she had dreamed so often, but which was so entirely different from
her wildest imaginings. As with the other room, this also was only
lighted from the top by one single glass, which was lowered or raised at
one’s will, to admit both air and light. The floor was inlaid with
different colored woods, over which rich rugs were strewn. The walls
were hung with what had once been a bright yellow satin, but which had
now faded to a dirty brown in streaks where the light had touched it.
The chairs were all upholstered in rich stuffs whose beauty had long
since disappeared, but the wonderful carvings still remained. They were
the most beautiful Victoria thought that she had ever seen. A Chinese
table of teak wood next caught her eye. It was a wonderful work of art.
The legs which came together at the top were marvels of carving. The top
of the table was inlaid about every two inches with solid ivory, in
which were carved tiny figures of men and women, birds and flowers, and
in fact everything known to the cunning Chinese artizan. Victoria
bewildered, took in the surroundings with a rapid glance, and in much
less time than it has taken to describe them.

“What a pity to let these rare things go to ruin when they might be put
to good use,” she thought as her eyes sought the bed. A mulatto stood at
the bedside, fanning the occupant vigorously. So engrossed was he that
he did not heed Victoria’s footsteps. She approached the bed with an
awed manner which one is apt to use in a sick chamber.

“Is your patient ill?” she whispered, touching him upon the arm. He
turned with a start, and gazed with a frightened look at her and the
child. Then he seized her roughly by the arm and strove to push her from
the room, but Victoria, who had by this time recovered her usual calm
manner, resolved to end this long hidden mystery. She did not remember
of ever having seen this negro before, but no doubt he was one of their
own men. She turned haughtily upon him. “I am your mistress,” she said,
raising her hand. “Don’t dare to touch me. Your master has given his
consent to my coming here. Now, tell me who is this man, and if he is
not ill why he remains so quiet?”

The man released her with a gutteral sound, which made her start, and
wildly moved his arms about, while he opened his mouth and pointed at
it. To her horror she saw that he had no tongue.

“Great heavens!” she ejaculated, “what mystery is here?” Her tone was
very tender as she added pityingly: “My poor man, I did not know of your
affliction. Can you hear? Do you understand what I say?”

He nodded assent.

“Then, who is the man in that bed?”

He shook his head slowly.

“You do not know?” she asked in surprise. “How long has he been here?
How long have you been here?”

Again the man shook his head, this time with an air of sadness most
pitiful to Victoria.

“Poor fellow,” she said, gently stroking his arm. Then, as a thought
came to her, she added: “Can you read and write?” Again that mournful
gesture more sad than tears.

Victoria turned in despair toward the bed. “Perhaps I can get a lucid
answer from this person,” she thought.

The mulatto approached the bed with a candle. As its rays fell upon the
upturned face of the sleeper, Victoria started back with a cry of
horror, snatched the candle from the man and placed it close to the
sleeper’s face.

“Roger!” she gasped. “Oh, my God! What do I see? Roger’s living face,
yet surrounded by snow-white hair? Am I going mad?” She reeled, and the
mulatto caught the candle as it fell from her hand. Although everything
seemed turning to darkness around her, Victoria did not faint. She felt
a tightening grip at her heart, as if some one was slowly squeezing it
between their hands. Her eyes could not leave the face of that old man
lying upon the pillow. “Who was he?” Not Roger, of course. How silly of
her to imagine so for even one moment. Had she not seen Roger’s body
placed in the ground with her own eyes? Had she not insisted upon gazing
at the horribly disfigured body of her beloved, although the sight had
been one which she should never forget? Ah, no, this was not Roger.
“Whoever he might be he was not her first beloved.”

As she reasoned she felt calmer. “This was Roger’s father without a
doubt. That was why the resemblance was so startling.” Then she
remembered that Roger’s father had been of swarthier skin, like Andrew,
with a dark, forbidding face, handsome, yet repelling. Mary had often
told Victoria how like to his father Andrew was, and their pictures
hanging side by side in the gallery demonstrated the fact. Again the
cold perspiration gathered upon her body. She must discover this mystery
or she should go mad. She turned to the mulatto who was stolidly
regarding her. “What is this man’s name? Can you tell me?”

He bowed his head.

“Is it—is it—” Victoria steadied herself by grasping his arm—“Roger?”

The man smiled and nodded. Victoria thought she must have died and then
returned to life, such a rush of emotion swept over her, such a flood of
darkness, and then the light again. Ah, if she could only die, but she
must ask one more question. Only one more. The answer to that would
either confirm or deny her suspicions. With an imploring look on her
white drawn face, as if she were begging him to say “No,” she asked: “Is
he blind?”

Again the man bowed his head, and with a cry which disturbed the
sleeper, she threw herself upon the bed, and clasped him in her arms.
This was her Roger alive, she knew not how, or by what means he had been
restored to life, but it was surely he, the husband of her youth, the
man whom she had loved so tenderly, and whose loss she still deeply
mourned. Forgetting the wondering child by her side who was now
beginning to cry; forgetting the wretched man below who had called her
wife for so many years; forgetting everything but the sightless lover of
her youth, she laid her cheek against that of the white-haired man, and
called him by all the fond endearing names which once had made sweet
music for his ears.

“Roger, my best beloved, my own husband, it is your Victoria who speaks
to you; your sweet wife. Awaken, and unravel all this mystery. Do you
not hear? Speak to me, call me your darling. Say anything, anything.”

Her voice ended in a sob. She kissed his eyelids, his white hair, while
the blessed tears fell unrestrainedly from her eyes. How good it seemed
to be able to weep. He had evidently awakened, for his eyelids were now
open, and a puzzled expression was on his face.

“Adam,” he called petulantly, “what is all this noise about? How do you
suppose I can sleep? Tell all those people to go away? Oh, my head, my
poor head. It’s buzzing again, Adam, buz, buz, buzzing.” He raised his
hands and placed them to his temples.

Victoria softly kissed his forehead. “Roger, your loving wife, from whom
you have been cruelly separated for so long, is here, right here by your
side. Can you not understand what I am saying?”

“Go away,” cried Roger, pushing her from him. “I want Adam.” He began to
whimper like a child. “I want Adam, I tell you.”

Victoria shrank from him in horror. Was he mad? Ah, no, God would not
have restored him to her only to have her find him an imbecile.

The mulatto now approached the bedside, and laid his hand upon the sick
man’s forehead, while he made a gutteral humming sound in his throat.
Roger’s cries subsided, and his face resumed its former placid
expression.

“That’s a good Adam,” he said, after a while. “A very good Adam. Such a
kind Adam.”

Victoria stood in silence gazing upon the mental wreck before her. A
thousand thoughts flashed through her brain, most of them wild, vague,
and full of terror. “Roger was alive, without a doubt, but that was all.
In all things pertaining to the past he was as dead as though he were
indeed within his grave; but the fact remained that he was her husband.
Then what was the wretched man waiting for her below?” She glanced at
Mary, who had sobbed herself asleep upon the floor—“and what was her
child, her innocent child who had never harmed anybody?” With the cry of
a wounded tigress, she snatched up the child and swiftly descended the
stairs, forgetful of Roger lying helpless in that other room. All her
thoughts were centered on the man who had wrecked her life, and that of
her child. “He _shall_ confess,” she whispered, pressing her lips to
those of the sleeping child. “I will strangle him; yes, I will even
commit murder, but he shall account to me for every day of that wretched
time when I supposed Roger to be dead!”

She stepped into the study. Andrew lay on the spot where he had fallen.
She placed Mary upon the couch and approached the prostrate figure. She
touched it with her foot. Her face was hard and resolute. Not an atom of
mercy would she show him. Was he not deserving of the most withering
scorn? “Wretch!” she said, “I have discovered your secret. At last the
truth has been made known. Get up and let me see your miserable guilty
face. Come, confess your sin.”

There was no answer, not even a muscle moved under her foot. She caught
sight of the half-finished letter lying upon the desk, the revolver
beside it. She devined at once what had been his intention. She caught
up the letter and read it. The erased words, “My Darling Wife,” touched
her deeply. The significance of the erasure was fully understood by her.
She groaned as she read it, but the next words brought the tears to her
eyes. “No woman on this earth was ever loved with the worship and
adoration, which I have lavished upon you.” When she had finished
reading the few remaining words Victoria knelt in tender pity beside the
guilty man, whom she had just cause for hating. There was no hatred in
her heart now. Nothing but sorrow, and a desire to shield and forgive
his sin. She turned his face toward her. It was ashen pale and cold as
one dead, and bore marks of great suffering. Indeed, for a moment she
thought his soul had forever fled, and perhaps even now was being judged
by Him who never errs.

“God is just,” she murmured, as she placed her ear at his heart. “He
will judge Andrew rightly. What right have I to pass judgment upon this
man who has gone to meet his Maker?”

She started to her feet. She had felt just the least motion of the
heart, but it had been enough to tell her that life still remained. She
hastily rang the bell and bade the servant who answered it to send two
men to her without delay, and to go himself for a physician.

When the men came she assisted them in getting Andrew to bed. He knew
nothing, and she watched beside him, applying all sorts of restoratives,
but without avail, until the doctor came. Andrew moaned incessantly, but
further than that had shown no signs of consciousness. The doctor took
several moments in thoroughly examining his patient, while Victoria
watched him breathlessly. Those few moments seemed like hours to her.

“This has been coming on him for some time,” said the doctor at last.
“His brain shows a severe mental strain. I would not like to express my
opinion too hastily. To-morrow will determine it, but I fear, Mrs.
Willing, that your husband will have an attack of brain fever, and it
will be almost certain death, owing to the overworked state of the
brain.”

And so it proved. Andrew became violent through the night, and as
morning dawned his ravings were such that Victoria had to be taken from
the room prostrated. She had confided in the doctor as they watched
beside the sick man, and he had at once shown her that now was not the
time to disclose to the world the skeleton which had been concealed for
so long. Andrew’s severe illness could be a pretext for shutting the
doors against all intruders, and with the help of two faithful nurses,
they could still retain the secret until a more suitable time, and if
Andrew should die, the doctor saw no use of ever unfolding a tale which
could only bring upon the survivors shame and ridicule, and upon the
name of the dead a tarnished reputation; whereas, keeping the secret
could injure nobody. Together they read the few words which expressed so
much of what was in Andrew’s heart; which told of the boundless love for
the woman whom he had called wife, and of the terrible remorse which
haunted him day and night, and which, like an incurable disease, was
slowly eating his life away.

“The man has suffered agonies,” said the doctor, holding Andrew’s hand
firmly as he struggled and writhed with the pain. “If he were tortured
with knives, or his body was put to the rack, he could not begin to
suffer what he has undergone mentally during these few past years. The
wonder is, how he has borne up so long. Most men would have succumbed
long ere this.” And then, as Andrew’s ravings became more violent, they
used their united strength in quieting him, until Victoria succumbed to
a nervous fit, and the doctor ordered her to be taken from the room.

In a few hours she was again herself, and insisted upon returning to
Andrew, who had become more quiet, and seemed to rest contented while
her hand was within his. The sick room being next to the study made
deception more easy, as the doctor took the study for his retiring room,
having promised Victoria not to leave her so long as Andrew lived, for
they looked upon his death as a certainty. Here all the doctor’s meals
were sent, and much comment was indulged in by the servants in the
kitchen over the enormous appetite of the “medicine man,” as he was
called.

“I tought Marse Andrew had a comin’ appetite,” said old Chloe, the cook,
as she was one day arranging the doctor’s dinner on a tray, “but golly
me! I neber did see sech a gormad as dat yer medicine man. Nuffin eber
comes back. Now, Marse Andrew, his midnight supper was de only one he
car’d fer. He neber teched anythin’ trough de day scasely, but de Lord
save us! dis yer man ull eat us yout o’ house an’ home. Heyar yo’ Sam,
stir yer stumps lively now, an’ flax roun’ an’ kill two more o’ dem
settin’ chicks. We’ll need em all fo’ mawnin. Ya, ya, ya.”

Aunt Chloe chuckled as she placed a plate of steaming hoe cake on the
tray, beside a delicately broiled steak garnished with plenty of
vegetables. “Don’t spose dar’s nigh ’nough,” she added, thoughtfully,
“bet a cookie he’ll be sendin’ down fer mo’; he gen’lally do. Heyar, you
Pete, lazy bones, tak’ dis up to Marse Doctor, un don’ drap it on yo’
big feet.”

Pete took the tray, and with a flourish which bid fair to land the whole
contents just where Aunt Chloe had admonished him not, he placed it on
his head, laughing at her horrified gestures and loud exclamations.

“I is all hunkey, Aunty; don’ you go for to cuttin’ up like dat now.
You’ll git de runktums agin suah, hark wat I’se tellin’ ye. Ef dat ar
docta wants mo’ stuff, he kin jes’ ma’ch down an’ git it fer hisself.
Don’ he tink I’se got nuffin else to do, ’cept wait on his bread basket?
Well, I reckon I has. As fer totin’ up and down star’s mor’en fifty
times, ter fetch tings ter stuff inter his big jaw, I’se done. Why don’
he keep me dar till he’s done? Den I could go arfter wat he wants, but
no, he jes’ sayes, ‘Lay de cloth, Pete, dat’s a good boy; and den yer
kin detire.’ In five minutes he wants mo’ bread. In five minutes mo’ he
dequests mo’ coffee, and den he only opens de do’ a little teenty crack,
jes’ ’nough to git my han’ in. You’se hearn o’ tape-worms, Aunt Clo? By
gollys! I tinks dat yer mans got a dozen.”

“Go long wid your tape-worms,” cried Aunt Chloe, “de blessed dinner’s
all gettin’ cold, while you’se shootin’ off dat trap o’ your’n. Spect I
want ter stan’ all day cookin’ tings fer yer ter leave ston’ cold, yer
soft headed nigger? Start yer stumps now.” She emphasized her remarks by
vigorous whacks with the wet dish cloth in her hand, and Pete started on
a trot, rattling the dishes together, while Aunt Chloe followed him with
anxious eyes, expecting every moment to see a grand tumble of viands
from their lofty perch; but a mysterious providence guarded his
footsteps, and brought the tray safely to the study door, which was
opened by the grave doctor, who took the tray from Pete, saying kindly:
“You need not enter, my boy. I can arrange things myself very well
without you.”

Pete, not to be outdone in courtesy, bobbed his head and made an
elaborate gesture with his arms, thereby causing the doctor to nearly
lose his grasp of the tray. As it was, a cup and saucer balanced
perilously near the edge, and the doctor loosened his hold of the door
to catch it. The door slowly swung open, and to Pete’s utter
astonishment he saw standing near the window, a tall, powerful mulatto
whom he had never seen before, and who looked at him curiously. The
doctor saw the whites of Pete’s eyes grow until the pupils disappeared,
and divining the cause he said, nodding at Adam: “You have not seen my
new body servant before, Pete? He has just come to bring me some fresh
linen,” and a moment later Pete found himself in the hall looking at the
closed door.

“Huh!” he grunted, “de docta tinks heself might cute, he do, but I tinks
_I_ knows a heap. I’ll jes watch for massa body servant w’en he comes
out, and scrap’ quaintance with him. I’se had my ’spicions dat de docta
nebber eat all dat stuff. I recon de body servant done help. Ya, ya.”

But Pete, although he sat on the top stair and kept his eyes on the
study door, never saw the body servant again much to his chagrin, for in
some way he had begun to suspect that all was not as it should be behind
the closed door.




                               CHAPTER V.


Andrew’s illness was of long duration, and Victoria had worn herself
almost to a shadow in her efforts to nurse him without any help, except
what the doctor and Adam, who was not always at liberty, could give her.
She had plenty of time for serious thought while in the sick room. In
fact she thought too much, and brought upon herself that most dreadful
of all maladies, insomnia. Sometimes, after being all night beside
Andrew, attending to the many wants which an invalid requires, she would
seek her couch almost dead for the want of sleep, only to find as her
head touched the pillow, that all desire for sleep had left her, and
that her eyes would not remain closed; while strange fancies and wild
thoughts ran riot in her brain; and she often rose from her pillow
unrefreshed by not so much as a half hour’s sleep. She did not tell the
doctor, for every day, she thought, would be the last of her miserable
feelings, and she would then find rest. She did not neglect the poor
invalid in the Western gable. Many hours when she should have been
resting were spent by her in trying to bring light to the darkened mind.
Her bitterest tears were shed in that room where Adam was the only
witness. She acknowledged to herself with sorrow and shame, that her
wifely love for Roger was forever dead. That the man who ruined her
life, held her heart by a cord which she would not break if she could.
With every feeble throb of his pulse she felt her love grow stronger,
and she knew that if he died her soul would follow his. Her love for
Roger was in a great measure the same which she felt for Mary, a
brooding motherly love, tender in the extreme, yet so different from the
fiery flame which burned her whenever she heard Andrew calling her in
tones of passionate entreaty, though the tongue which uttered them was
inflamed by fever, and the man knew not what he said.

He had been ill three weeks, and in all that time not a gleam of
consciousness had shown in the fever-lighted eyes. No ray of light had
come to the clouded brain. Victoria hung over him, watching his every
motion, praying for returning reason, while in those three weeks he
lived over the ten years of his sin-laden life. Victoria listened,
sometimes in tears, and again in keenest pity, while the tongue which
had so faithfully guarded the stricken man’s secret was now loosened,
and ran on, and on unceasingly, babbling into the ears of the woman he
had loved and wronged, all those things which he had so jealously kept
from her.

He told of how in the early days of their meeting he had not cared for
her, but after a time her loveliness dawned upon him, and grew, and
grew, until from a trifling friendship it had developed into a passion
which only death could quench. At such times he would clasp Victoria
around the neck with almost the light of reason in his eyes, and calling
her “mother,” would tell her of the sweet fair English girl who had
stolen his heart only to break it. Victoria’s tears fell like rain on
the hot purple lips of the sick man, as she listened to his ravings, but
not a tear dimmed the brilliancy of the burning eyes fixed upon her’s.
He seemed to know that she wept, for he would say: “Don’t cry, mother.
You are too young and beautiful to weep, although your hair _is_ white,
and you love Roger better than you do me. I have become used to that,
but mother,” and here his voice would become shrill and discordant, and
his features fierce and repellant, “Roger must not steal everything from
me; he must leave my beautiful angel with the pure white wings for me to
love. I will kill him else.”

Then, perhaps, for a few moments, the burning eyes would droop only to
be raised again, with a fiercer light gleaming in them, while he fought
with imaginary demons, all bearing the form of Roger, who wanted to take
from him his beautiful angel with the pure white wings, whose earthly
name had been Victoria. Then for a time he lived over again that
dreadful railroad accident, whereby Roger was supposed to have lost his
life. With the cunningness of insanity, he would look up into Victoria’s
face and laughingly ask her “if she knew who Roger Willing was, and
where he was buried. How I have longed to tell Victoria something,” he
would say. “What a mockery her flowers seemed when laid upon the grave
of an unknown, while Roger was sleeping—ah, where was he sleeping? If I
tell you, you will tell her, and then I shall lose you, for you will go
to Roger whom you always loved better than you did me, and who stole my
angel, my beautiful angel with the pure white wings, but he has paid for
it, paid for it dearly.”

Victoria, who longed to know the real facts relating to Roger’s escape
from death, questioned the sick man all that she dared to, but his lips
remained sealed until one day, as she was bending over him bathing his
face, he caught her hands, and, holding them with a grip of iron, he
shouted: “Ah! I know you at last. I have been trying to remember you for
centuries. You are the shade of that beautiful bride from whose arms I
tore the mangled remains of her husband, while not so much as a bruise
was on her lovely face. Ah, ha! You have found me at last. Well, now
that you have what are you going to do about it? He received Christian
burial. I will take you to his grave, all covered with daisies, and you
may find there, most any day, a fair woman—Oh, yes, far lovelier than
you, beg pardon—who weeps and mourns for him who lies beneath. She
thinks it is her husband. Only I know differently. _You_ will never
tell; you can’t, because you are a shade, and shades never return to
bother us; but then, if they don’t, how the deuce did you get here? Ah!
I see. I have become a shade; that explains it. Oh, of course, very
considerate of you to meet me to ask after the welfare of your beloved.
Did I not tell you he was well taken care of, while you were given a
pauper’s burial? Nobody ever took the pains to hunt _you_ up. Now go
away and don’t bother me. I’ve got no more to tell you.” Then,
exhausted, he would sink back upon the pillow, gasping for breath.

Perhaps it was his weakness which appealed to Victoria’s womanly heart.
Perhaps it was the strong love which even in his most agonizing moments
of pain, he never lost for “his angel.” In all those weary weeks he
never called for Victoria; he always spoke of her as if she had gone
away or was indeed an angel. To him Victoria was his mother, and her
touch soothed him when nothing else would, and many times he pleaded
with her to intercede with Victoria in his behalf. “She knows I adore
her,” he would cry. “Mother, she is angry with me. I cannot bear those
reproachful eyes forever fixed upon me. Tell her I did it because I
loved her so. Tell her nothing, however bad it might have been, that she
could ever do, would have turned my love from her. Ask her to forgive. I
know she will; she always had such a tender little heart. Tell her I
thought it no sin at first, because it brought her within my arms. My
arms which are empty now. Ask her if she remembers the night of the
ball, when she told me that she loved me, or was beginning to love me.
’Twas then I realized that heaven I had never expected to reach. Oh,
God, that night. Will it ever come back to me?”

Victoria buried her head in the pillow. “My heart is breaking,” she
cried, as the doctor lifted her wasted form as if it had been a child.
“Doctor, give me something to make me sleep. I have not slept for four
days or nights. If I might sleep to never waken more, how happy I should
be.”

“Think of your child, Mrs. Willing,” replied the doctor. “Think of all
those who are leaning upon you; who would be lost without you. You have
proven yourself one of a thousand in this severe trial. Be brave a
little while longer. Why did you not tell me of this insomnia? Of course
I will give you an opiate, and when you shall awaken, life will have put
on an entirely different hue, and there will also be a change in Andrew
for better or for worse. See, he sleeps. It will be either death or
life. Let us pray to God now, this instant. Which shall it be?”

Victoria, almost distracted by the fiery trial which she was undergoing,
looked at the sleeper with eyes of love. Then, raising those eyes to
heaven, she cried: “Death! Merciful Father, in Thine infinite pity, Thou
who knowest the frailties of the human heart and who chastises only by
love, let it be death which shall come to him who holds my heart and
will not let it go, for if it be life, what will become of us, who are
so weak?”

The doctor raised her from her knees and bore her to a couch. “God moves
in a mysterious way,” he said, gently stroking the beating veins in her
temples. “He does not always answer our prayers direct. Come, say with
me the Lord’s Prayer. It covers everything which we need. Will you say
it?”

“Yes,” replied Victoria, her eyes still upon the sleeping man; and with
her hands clasped within those of her untiring, faithful friend, she
repeated with him the simple yet restful prayer, which has brought peace
to so many aching hearts. As the doctor repeated “Thy kingdom come, Thy
will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven,” Victoria’s voice faltered,
and, bowing her head upon the physician’s arm, she cried: “No, no, I
cannot say that. It is _my_ will that I wish, not _His_. How _can_ I say
it, when my heart cries all the time for death, oblivion, forgetfulness?
God’s will may be to have him live. What, then, must be our future? Ah,
no, I cannot, dare not say what my heart rebels against. Think you that
I have the strength to live apart from him who draws me by a power I
cannot resist? Ah, no, dear friend; the spirit may be ever so willing,
but the flesh is woefully weak. There is no safety for either of us but
in death.”

For a time the doctor allowed her to indulge in the passionate grief,
which shook her frail form as a mighty storm sways a tender sapling.
Then, wetting a cloth with a strong æsthetic, he laid it over her face,
and presently her sobs ceased and she lay quiet. Removing the cloth, he
took her in his arms as he would a tired child, and laid her beside
Andrew. “If she awakens, she will remain quiet, knowing that the least
move may prove fatal to the invalid,” he said, watching the pale, worn
face. “Poor child! Her burden may become greater than she can bear, for
I notice a change in Andrew. I think he will live.”

It was hours before a single motion from either disturbed the
physician’s reverie. Then Andrew, with a deep sigh, opened his eyes.
They encountered the doctor’s. He approached the bed, placing his finger
upon his lips to enjoin silence, but Andrew could not have even
whispered. Keeping his eyes open was an exertion, and he soon closed
them; but in those few seconds the doctor had seen in the questioning
eyes the light of returning reason, and with a murmured “thank God,” he
set about preparing a cordial against the time when it should be needed,
for now he knew that Andrew had passed the crisis, and with good care
would live.

All physicians take a certain professional pride in having been
instrumental in saving a patient for whom they have labored, expecting
nothing but death. So it was with this good doctor. It had seemed a
hopeless case from the beginning. A case which held no promise of a
reward for his untiring efforts, and so, perhaps, his joy was greater
because this man’s life had been given to him in answer to his prayer.
For he had prayed that Andrew might live, just as fervently as Victoria
prayed that he might die. He foresaw a serious complication of affairs,
if Andrew should die. Much more serious than if he lived, especially so
for little Mary, upon whose innocent head would descend her father’s
sin. When Victoria should awaken refreshed in mind and body, he would
present all these things to her in a light which her clear common sense
must acknowledge as being the only way out of this almost insurmountable
difficulty. A way in which the family name could be saved from disgrace;
in which the dying man upstairs (for his days were numbered) could
peacefully pass away; in which the little child who had done no wrong
could be shielded from the world’s cruel tongue, which stabs
unmercifully from the back, whilst exhibiting a smiling face.

All this the kind friend determined should Victoria be made to see. As
for himself when his duty should have been done; when there remained no
more for him to do, he would again take up the monotonous routine of a
country physician’s life; not without a scar upon his heart, however.
These few weeks of close companionship with a woman superior in all
things to any he had ever known, had been dangerous in the extreme, and
he was conscious of it. He was a confirmed bachelor of fifty years. His
boast among his own sex was, that he had never been in love, nor had he
ever seen the woman who could tempt him to change his happy state, for
what he was sure would be a most unhappy one. He had been the Willing’s
family physician for eighteen years. He had been present at every death,
at every birth, within that time. He had been a trusted and tried friend
of the family outside his professional capacity. He had looked upon
Victoria almost as a father might have done, but he found as the days
went by, that he had more than a father’s love for the sad, sweet-faced
woman, who bore her burdens so uncomplainingly, and who was living up to
her faith so far as the light had been shown her.

Unlike most professional men the doctor was a thorough Christian. He
carried his faith into his work, not obtrusively; no person could say
that of him. Yet when called to a patient who had never employed him
before, that patient knew ere the doctor left the room that he was a
servant of the Lord. So when he saw that Victoria was becoming every day
more dear to him, he did not flee from her presence as a weaker man
might have done. He simply stated the case to his Heavenly Father, as a
child confesses a fault to an earthly parent, and trusting in the Divine
guidance he went about his duties as before, knowing full well that
without him the frail bark would founder. That here was he needed, and
here he must remain, guiding the rudder until all danger should be
passed.

Victoria saw nothing of all this. To her this man was only their family
physician in whom she had been obliged to confide. A man deserving of
her confidence, and one who would not abuse it. Knowing his aversion to
all women she would not have believed her own ears if he had knelt
before her and poured out all that was in his heart. She would have
said: “I have at last gone mad.”

There were times when Victoria nearly succumbed under the weight of her
manifold duties. Then it was that the doctor was obliged to put a strong
curb upon himself. He longed to take her in his arms tenderly,
soothingly, and stroke the aching brow until he should bring rest to her
whom he loved, but he dared not, for he knew she would not understand
such love as he felt for her; that it would only frighten her. To him
this was the sweetest time in all his life, and he knew that there was
no sin in such love as he bore Victoria. He did not desire her for
himself. True, if she had been free, he would have striven desperately
to win her, but she was not and never would be while he lived, and he
did not wish it otherwise. He longed for her happiness; to see her gay
and smiling, as he had once known her in her early married life with
Roger. She had passed through so many fiery trials that they had left
their imprint on her face, and she must bear their marks through life,
but he would shield her from all further care so far as it lay in his
power. The cruel darts of malicious tongues should never strike her, if
he could prevent it.

Such had been his thoughts as he sat beside the couch waiting for the
crisis which meant so much to all three of them. Now the tide had
turned. Andrew would live, and he must, as the only friend who knew his
secret, counsel and advise him. However painful, it was a duty from
which he must not shrink, and for Victoria’s sake he would take upon
himself the secret of “The House of Five Gables,” and keep it from the
curious, gaping world.

A second time Andrew opened his eyes and gazed questioningly at the
doctor. Then, feebly turning his head he saw Victoria’s white, wan face
on the pillow beside him. When he looked again toward the doctor there
was a smile of perfect peace upon his face. His lips moved. The doctor
bent to catch the words which came feebly, hesitatingly.

“She knows all, and yet she has not left me. How great is woman’s
forebearance. I have been ill?”

The doctor nodded. “Yes, very ill, Andrew, and unless you keep very
quiet and husband what strength you have remaining, you cannot recover.
Take this cordial and compose yourself for another sleep. Then when you
waken, I will answer all the questions you choose to ask.”

“Just one more question, doctor. How is my brother?”

“There is no change nor will there ever be. He will remain in this state
until he dies, which is only a question of time. His days are numbered.”

Andrew turned his eyes again upon Victoria, and tried to raise his hand,
but it fell helpless upon the coverlet. He looked wistfully at the
doctor. “I am so weak,” he whispered. “Take her hand and put it within
mine. I want to touch her; to know that she is flesh and blood. She
looks so pale, and wan; so like death, and it has been all for me; all
for me.”

The doctor did as Andrew desired, and with a sigh of content, the
invalid closed his eyes with Victoria’s hand clasped in his own.

An hour later Victoria awoke. Adam was sitting beside the bed fanning
Andrew, who lay sleeping with a faint smile on his face, and with
Victoria’s hand still within his. She gently drew it away and rose from
the couch. Something in Andrew’s appearance told her that he had
awakened in his right mind. The soft, rosy flush on his cheeks, which
had long been so colorless, bespoke returning life. Although she had
prayed that he might die, a rush of gladness that God had not seen fit
to answer her prayer filled her heart. After all, how could she bear to
have him put away from her sight forever, and too, there was Mary, who
loved her father so passionately, that if he died it might seriously
affect the child, who hung about the door all day, refusing to be
enticed out to play, and eating scarcely enough to keep her alive. Once
she had been admitted to the sick room, but her violent sobs at seeing
her father’s swollen lips and colorless face, disturbed the sick man,
and she was banished, but she knew that her father was still there, and
nothing could induce her to leave the door, where Victoria found her as
she went out. She took the child in her arms and carried her into the
study where the doctor lay sleeping. “Papa will live, my darling,” she
sobbed, burying her face in the clustering curls. “Papa will live.
To-morrow you shall see him, and tell him how happy you are that he
again knows you.”

The doctor arose as he heard Victoria’s voice and came to her. She
looked up with a smile more cheerful than any he had seen on her face
for many a day. “You know that he will live?” she asked.

“Yes, Mrs. Willing, he awakened while you slept. He asked for his
brother, and then he wanted your hand in his, when he fell into a
life-giving sleep, which will do him more good than all my medicines.
Good nursing and strengthening food is all he requires from this on. I
think I may safely return home to-night. I will come early in the
morning to see how he is progressing.”

“Ah! do not leave me,” she said, clasping his arm. “What shall I do
without your ever ready hand to assist me? Oh, my friend, you will never
know what a comfort you have been to me in this my sorrow. No words can
express to you what is in my heart. But for your thoughtful care and
Christian example, I must have died. God bless and keep you.”

The physician bowed his head. Such sweet praise from the lips of the
woman who was so dear to him, was balm to the scarred heart beating now
so furiously. He raised her hand to his lips. “My dear Mrs. Willing,” he
said, as calmly as if she were a perfect stranger, and he a man of
stone. No sign of tumult within him showed upon his tranquil face. “My
dear Mrs. Willing, all that I have done any compassionate man would also
do. I deserve no thanks for doing my duty. I could not have saved that
frail life if God had not willed it so. To Him belongs the praise.” He
took Mary in his arms, and kissed her many times. It was a blessed
relief to be able to ease his aching heart on the face of this innocent
child. Her child.

“You hug almost as hard as papa,” she said, patting his cheeks
caressingly. “Do you love me a heap?”

“Yes, heaps and heaps,” laughed the doctor. “What will you take for one
of these curls. I would like to take it away with me and wear it next my
heart.”

“Couldn’t spare the weentiest bit of a one,” she answered, shaking her
head sagely. “My papa owns all of them. He says every hair on my head is
more precious to him than all his gold. When he gets well enough to talk
to me, I’ll ask him if you may have one. I could not let you have it
else, but I’ll give you all the hair on Flora McFlimsey’s head. It’s a
heap prettier than mine, and stays put a heap longer. I haven’t any
bald-headed children. I reckon I’d like one for a change.”

The doctor laughed. “I should feel highly honored to receive Miss
Flora’s hair, and you are very generous to offer it, but it is yours I
wish. If I can’t have _it_ I don’t want any.”

“Oh!” said Mary, meditatively, as she laid her head upon his breast, and
played with the buttons on his coat, “that’s it, is it? I reckon you’ll
have to go without. Why don’t you buy a little girl with hair just like
mine? Then you’d have heaps of curls instead of a teeny one.”

“Ah, but the trouble is, there are no little girls to buy.”

Mary’s mouth made a round O, while she looked at the doctor and then at
Victoria, who was amusedly listening. “I—I am afraid you don’t always
speak the truth,” she said, after a pause, “and mamma says that’s
extremely naughty. You carried a baby to Myrtle Bradley’s house the
other day, and one to Dorothy Lane’s. Why didn’t you keep one for
yourself?”

“But they were both boys, Mary, and boys, you know, don’t have such nice
hair as girls.”

“Oh!” again said Mary. Then, after a pause, she drew the doctor’s ear
close to her rosebud mouth and whispered confidentially: “Don’t let
mamma hear, but do you know, every night when I go to bed, I thank God
that you did not bring a boy to mamma instead of me. I should not like
to have been born a boy.”

The doctor roared, and looked at Victoria, who had heard the loud
whisper, but his face quickly sobered as he saw her agitation.

“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,” she quoted. “Oh! God, I too,
thank thee for this precious gift, which was not born a boy, who might
have lived to curse the author of his being.” She rose hurriedly and
left the room, while the doctor gazed after her with a deep sorrow in
his eyes.




                              CHAPTER VI.


The next few days were quiet dreamy ones to the invalid. Not much
conversation was allowed in his room, and he did not seem inclined to
talk. To watch Victoria as she glided silently about performing the
usual duties, was happiness enough for him. There was a world of
enduring patient love in his eyes, as they followed her every motion.
His thoughts were always of her. “Was there ever woman so noble, so
forgiving? If he had loved her in the days gone by, what was _this_
feeling which now thrilled him whenever she laved his face or touched
his hand? It was as if the hand of an angel had been laid upon him.” He
felt purified, exhilarated, free from all sin. Her calm spirituelle face
soothed and quieted him. He longed to utter what was in his mind; to
tell her how sanctified she had become to him; to pray to her as a
Catholic prays to his patron saint. Knowing his sin, knowing how he had
deceived her, she did not turn from him in scorn and loathing, as any
other woman would have done, but true to herself, compassionate,
forgiving, she had stayed by him tenderly nursing him back to health and
strength. He knew that to her never-ceasing care he owed his life, but
not for a moment was he vain enough to attribute it to love for him. The
love which was just springing up in her heart like a tender flower, must
have been ruthlessly crushed when she knew of his base deception which
had continued for so many years, and now that she knew Roger was living,
her love would again return to him and rightfully, Andrew did not rebel
at the thought. There could never be any more hatred for Roger in his
heart. The noble conduct of this more than noble woman had forever
dispelled it. Without a murmur he would resign her, content in knowing
that she had forgiven him; content to worship her from afar, living over
again the fragrant past, taking no hopes for the future for he could see
none. The doctor had said that Roger’s days were numbered, but what of
that, Victoria would never return to him who had ruined her life. Ah,
no, her forebearance could not be expected to extend that far, and
somehow the thought did not affect him, as it would have done before
this sickness. His love for Victoria was purer, of a higher order than
before. She seemed no longer a mortal but a being most celestial, and he
would not have been at all surprised had he seen wings suddenly appear
upon her form and Victoria soaring away into space far, far beyond his
gaze.

Victoria was conscious of Andrew’s eyes following her every motion, and
she strove to curb the strong passion which at times threatened to
master her. She longed to cast herself beside him; to confess the
overpowering influence which drew her to him despite her will; to tell
him that now, God pity her, she loved him with a strength, a passion,
which was as deep as his own, and that the man upstairs, who should be
all in all to her, was nothing, nothing, nor ever would be. She cared
for him less than she cared for Mary, and in the same maternal way; but
for the man who had sinned so grievously against her and her child; who
had not hesitated to commit a crime which if known meant years of
imprisonment; for this man, guilty though he might be, she was willing
to suffer anything, rather than be separated from him. And why _was_ it
so? That she was unable to explain even to herself. She only knew that
so it was, incredible as it might seem to anybody who had never been
tempted in like manner. To save the man she loved she resolved to keep
Roger in imprisonment, whatever might be the cost, and to let things go
on as before. She felt a satisfaction in the thought that in so doing
her guilt would be equal to Andrew’s. Therefore one could not reproach
the other.

Few words had passed between them. Once when she had been feeding to him
some gruel, he had kissed her hand and murmured: “My angel,” in tones
which stirred every fiber in her heart, and set them quivering. She had
not answered him. She could not. If she had, such a torrent of burning
words would have escaped her, that in his weak state might have proved
disastrous. To kill him now would be to kill herself, so she veiled her
eyes when obliged to approach him, and her calm, low voice, and rather
cold features, told not of the storm-tossed soul within the fragile
frame.

Mary had been allowed in for a few moments each day, but her incessant
chattering wearied Andrew. He loved his child. The sight of her glad
face brought him new life. Her kisses were like strong wine, yet in a
short time he tired of her, and was glad when the door closed upon her,
and he was once more left alone with his waking dreams, wherein
Victoria, “his angel,” was always the central figure.

Despite Victoria’s entreaties the doctor had gone back to his cheerless
bachelor quarters which he shared with a younger colleague who had taken
the doctor’s patients during Andrew’s illness. Back to a landlady who
resembled a feather pillow tied tightly around the middle; a landlady
who wore a false front many shades darker than the back hair; who
sniffed when she poured his tea, sniffed when she passed him an article
of food, and who had a very annoying habit of inquiring after each and
every patient by name, and of enumerating their several ailments for the
benefit of the other boarders who did not know, and who did not care to
know, but who bore the infliction with martyr-like stoicism. From what
source she gathered her information was a mystery to the doctor who was
most reticent in all things pertaining to his profession. He would have
left her establishment long ago only it was “Hobson’s choice” with him.
There was none other. She was sole monarch over the stomachs of all the
homeless men in Fort Henry, and if any dared to grumble at the food
placed before him she could afford to toss her head and tell him, “if he
didn’t like it he knew what he could do,” which was just what the
hapless individual did not know. The doctor never grumbled over the
culinary arrangements. He was never known to perpetrate but one joke on
the good woman, which, although hugely enjoyed by those who heard it,
fell far short of the mark shot at.

One day the doctor came to his dinner with a ravenous appetite. He had
been in the saddle since daybreak without a mouthful. A brown substance
was set before him which he eyed rather suspiciously. At last hunger
conquered suspicion, and he took a mouthful. He chewed and chewed, and
finally with a gulp which brought the tears to his eyes, he swallowed
it. The few who had suffered before him were watching silently.

“What do you call this dish?” he gravely asked his landlady.

“Fried sole,” she replied, busy with the cups and saucers.

“Ah?” he exclaimed, quickly. “What shoemaker do you deal with? I must
know him.”

A general laugh followed his query. Only the landlady maintained her
gravity. She had heard nothing to laugh at. “I most generally trade at
the sign of the boot,” she said, casting a withering look around the
table, but which changed to a smile as she looked at the doctor. “I
never had cause to complain, although I will say that my last congress
gaiters ain’t goin’ to wear near so good as t’others, but on the whole
I’d advise you to go there, doctor. They’ll treat you well, especially
if you have corns.”

The doctor looked helplessly at his companions and then collapsed. His
first and only joke had been a failure. “Requiescat in pace,” he
murmured, which quotation caused another outbreak among the diners, but
they were quickly frowned down by the austere mistress. She had no
affinity between fried soles and her shoemaker, but she _did_ look with
approving eyes at the doctor, who had noticed her feet enough to ask
what shoemaker she employed. “He was a dear man, and near her own age;
could it be possible he was thinking of matrimony, and with her? Well,
if so, he should be rewarded. She had saved a tidy little sum since
Samuel died,” (Samuel being the dear departed, of course), “and it
should be all his, every cent. He should see how generous she could be.
The dear, good man.”

After this she watched over his going out and coming in with almost
wisely solicitude. She managed by hook or by crook to know who were his
patients, and what their ailments. It necessitated a reckless
expenditure of coppers among the street gamin, but it might pay her in
the end, so she thought. He could not very well ignore her, when he
found how anxiously she studied his every interest. She even went so far
as to purloin several medical works from his study in his absence, so as
to read up against the time when she might have to entertain him whole
evenings in her parlor, which until now had been sacred to Sundays and
“other high days,” as she called them. No boarder’s profane foot had
ever desecrated the jaundiced carpet, whose flaring green and yellow
figures, if made in our day and time, would have driven Oscar Wilde much
wilder. The stiff, horsehair chairs were miracles in their way. It
required courage and a certain amount of finesse on the part of a
would-be occupant, ere he dared entrust himself to their embrace—a cold,
slippery embrace, not at all reassuring. Even a huge oil painting of the
dear, departed Samuel, taken in Highland costume, could not lend a
festive aspect to the room. In all things but the carpet it was
decidedly funereal. Into this “cheerful” retreat she ushered the doctor
the night of his return from “The Five Gables.” She had literally killed
the fatted calf in honor of his return. The supper-table groaned beneath
the unwonted weight of so many delicacies heaped upon it. The widow was
resplendent in a new false front which _curled_. She had given several
shin-plasters for those curls, “something quite new,” the shopkeeper
told her, “and recently adopted by the Queen of England.” It was not
without some misgivings that she indulged in this reckless piece of
extravagance, but there was much at stake. Those curls might be the
means of a proposal. “Mrs. Dr. Arthur Harrison.” The name was magical.
Without so much as a sigh she counted out the necessary amount, and the
curls were hers.

She made the chore boy saw a new board for her stays, which she laced
until every breath she drew was a sigh. She could not even sniff without
a pang in her bosom, and after she was dressed she ordered the maid of
all work to go around her with a tape line. She smiled, although it was
a mighty effort, when she heard the girl exclaim: “Thirty-four inches,
Mistress Jackson; that’s two inches less than last week, and three
inches less than the week before.” What a sacrifice was she offering
upon the altar of her love. She met the doctor with a fat smile, which
she meant should be captivating, but which only served to make her
ridiculous. The doctor thought as he went slowly to his study: “I wonder
what has come over the old lass. She seems a good deal spruced up. It
must be that she is on the war path for a successor to the dear
departed. Well I wish her all the good fortune that may attend her.
Fortune is a fickle jade.”

He did not dream that all these demonstrations were in honor of his
modest self.

The boarders looked at one another as their landlady with a sweet smile,
asked the doctor to accompany her to the parlor as they left the table.
What was about to happen? Were the skies going to fall? Were their eyes
to behold that sacred veil, i. e.—the door—lifted so that at last they
might gaze on what lay beyond? Oh, no, the landlady had other plans. As
the doctor could hardly refuse her invitation this first evening of his
return, he acquiesced with as good grace as possible.

Taking his arm and giggling like a girl of sixteen, she swept him out of
the door on to the veranda, and unlocking the big green door, ushered
him with an awed manner into the sacred room. The semi-twilight which
struggled through the drawn shades, was embarrassing in the extreme to
the doctor, who was all at sea as to his surroundings. He dared not
advance a step in any direction, for huge shapes loomed up before him,
the likeness of which he could only imagine. Vague feelings of mistrust
as to his landlady’s designs began to steal upon him. He wished he had
not come. She still held his arm, and she now gave it a little squeeze
which made him feel chilly. “Horrors! what was this dreadful woman about
to say or do?” He resolved to forestall her by saying: “Madam, take pity
on my youth and innocence. I am an orphan, with neither father or
mother, and two hundred miles from home,” but ere he could muster his
courage she had left him, and in a moment he heard a flint struck, and
she came toward him bearing a candelabra which she set upon a table. He
could now see where he was, and as she said: “Be seated, doctor,” he
gingerly consigned himself to one of the horsehair chairs, which looked
to him like an evil spirit in disguise.

She seated herself in a similar chair, which she drew perilously near
the doctor. He would have liked to move away, but he felt a slipperiness
which warned him that any unguarded move might send him upon the floor.
He raised his eyes to where hung the portrait of the dear departed.
Here, at least, was a safe subject for conversation.

“A fine-looking man,” he said, nodding at the sepulchral face of Samuel.

“Ah, now, you be talking,” replied the widow, with a loud sniff, which
caused her untold agony in the region of her waist. “Oh, he was a man
what _was_ a man, was that one. Never a word of fault about anything,
just that even tempered was he. Give him his ale and a pipe, and you’d
never know he was in the house. He was Scotch, you know.”

“I perceive that,” said the doctor, who felt in duty bound to say
something.

“Yes,” continued the widow, “that picture I had copied. A man came along
and stopped with me two weeks. He never paid me any board money. He
hadn’t any money, so he said as how he would paint my Samuel’s picter.
It’s as nateral as life, only one thing, Samuel had a cast in one eye. I
often longed to know how he would look with two straight eyes, so I had
him painted with both eyes alike. Oh, how I have admired that picter. It
was the only thing I didn’t quite love him for, that squint. Sometimes
it were worse nor others, and I know when he was courting me, I used to
imagine he had one eye on me and tother on the timepiece, as if he was
thinking about going every minute. He’s been dead seven year. I wore my
bombazine as long as any widow ever does. I mourned him faithful. Folks
ought not to gossip if I see fit to choose another.” She heaved a sigh
and looked coyly at the doctor. “I have saved a good bit of money, and
it’s all in stocks and bonds. This house and the next one is mine, clear
from debt. I don’t owe anybody. I’m as good a match for a man of my age
as you’ll find in a long run.”

The doctor fidgeted. “Was he listening to a proposal from this old
busybody, who was old enough to be his mother, or she ought to be, if
she wasn’t? Would nothing help him out of this dilemma?” In his
uneasiness he had been perilously nearing the edge of the chair, but he
was unaware of his peril. He was trying to conjure some excuse for
leaving the room without telling a down-right lie. “My dear,”—he was
about to add “madam,” but his evil star was just then in the ascendant,
for, without warning, before he could regain his balance, the
treacherous horsehair deposited him at the widow’s feet. She did not
wait for him to finish his sentence. The sight of him upon his knees
before her, where she had so often seen him in her dreams, was too much,
and clasping him around the neck, she held his head tightly against her
expansive breast, while she sobbed: “Yes, I know I am your dear. Oh,
Arthur! how happy we shall be! I’ll turn all the boarders away, and
we’ll live here all alone, just you and me, ducky.”

The doctor struggled to free himself. He felt as if he was slowly
suffocating, but she held him fast.

“Oh, how good it seems to again hold a dear head like this,” she
continued, patting him heavily. The doctor groaned.

“And don’t my petsie, wetsie, feel good?” she asked, kissing the bald
spot on his head. “Is he sick? Oh, I am such a wonderful nurse. Where is
the pain, ducky?”

She let up on her hold of him for a moment, and he partly struggled to
his feet, but she caught him again.

“Let me go, woman!” he roared, “you must be mad, stark, staring mad!
Marry you? Why, I’d poison you within a week.”

“Woman!” she gasped, “oh, that I should live to hear my Arthur call me
woman!” She made one grand effort to hold him, but there came a sound
like the distant report of a pistol; with a shriek she loosened her
arms, and the doctor ignominiously fled. Fled out through the green
door, leaving it open behind him; around the porch, into his study,
where he bolted and barred the doors and windows. Then he sat down and
laughed. Laughed until the tears came at the spectacle he must have
presented upon his knees, with the widow hugging him for dear life.

To what good angel he owed his happy release he knew not, but the widow
knew only too well. The long suffering stays at last rebelled, and at
the most critical moment revenged themselves by bursting.

So ended the widow’s courtship. She sat long that night gazing at
Samuel’s portrait. “To think he should have witnessed my humiliation,”
she murmured, and then to her excited fancy, one eye began to take on
that leer which had been so distasteful to her, and sighing heavily, she
arose and turned the picture toward the wall.




                              CHAPTER VII.


The next morning the doctor removed his goods and chattels to “The Five
Gables,” and took an office on the principal street, getting his meals
wherever hunger overtook him. He knew that he was welcome to stay at
“The Gables” forever if he liked, but he did not care to. He was
conscious of his own strength. He knew that he could live in the same
house with Victoria and never tell her of his love, but in some way she
might discover it, and then all intercourse, however Platonic, would be
at an end between them. She would despise him for a false friend. She
could never be made to see his love in the same light with which he
received it, so it were best that he should go to “The Gables” as little
as possible.

Victoria enjoyed hugely the widow’s proposal, and insisted upon his
telling it to Andrew. Perhaps it might rouse him from the strange,
almost comatose state which had seemed to hold him since he had regained
his senses. To lie and dream with his eyes wide open, following Victoria
as she moved about the room, was all he had cared to do. He did not
often speak, and Victoria grew alarmed at this lethargy, which was so
foreign to his nature; so the doctor, one day, at Victoria’s bidding,
sat down beside the bed and told Andrew of his recent adventure, making
it as ridiculous as possible, thereby trying to win from his patient a
hearty laugh, but Andrew only smiled dreamily, and watched Victoria as
she arranged some flowers in a vase, and placed them near his bedside.

“She is the fairest flower of them all,” the doctor heard him murmur.
“There is not one to compare with her. No, not one.”

The physician saw that Andrew’s mind had not been on the story he had
just related. In all probability he had not heard a word of it, and the
doctor formed a resolution which he immediately put into execution. He
asked, abruptly, keeping his eye on the invalid’s face: “Have you
thought what the future has in store for you, Andrew?”

The deep-sunken eyes turned inquiringly upon the doctor.

“The future, the future,” he repeated, “What have I to do with the
future? There is no future for me.”

“Then you do not care what becomes of you? You are not desirous of
living?”

For the first time Andrew evinced some interest, and there was a flash
of the old imperiousness in his manner as he replied: “Who would wish to
live if they knew a prison cell stood waiting to receive them? Ask a
bird which is suddenly caught and caged after having been free all its
life; ask it if it chooses freedom with death as a penalty, or long life
behind prison bars, though gilded? It will soon answer by beating its
little life out against the cruel wires which cage it.”

He stopped and caught his breath with almost a sob. Victoria turned
surprised to hear his voice which rang out strong and almost as firm as
of old.

“Then you acknowledge your crime, and are willing to suffer the
penalty?” asked the doctor bending forward.

Andrew’s eyes sought Victoria as if he were seeking strength. “No
punishment which man can inflict will exceed that which God has already
given. Victoria and the child are lost to me forever, and it is just. My
angel who is so pure, so spotless, will return to the man she loves.
What matters the tortures inflicted upon this body by a cruel world, I
shall not heed them. The heart only can feel, and my heart is gone from
me, gone into the keeping of my angel where it will be safe from all
sin. Everything she touches becomes pure, you know.”

Victoria was weeping. She could not listen unmoved to the words which
told of the complete change in this man’s nature. He was willing to
resign both her and Mary without a struggle, knowing the prior right of
the man up stairs. Although he was little better than an imbecile. She
knew he loved her still; that their separation would be his death blow;
that he could not live without her. She crossed the room rapidly, and
knelt beside the bed taking Andrew’s wondering face in her hands and
kissing it passionately. “I love but you, my darling. You have sinned
against me grievously, but I condone everything, everything, you sinned
through love of me. Much can be forgiven you, because you have loved
much.”

Andrew’s face was a study. The glad tidings that at last Victoria loved
him with a passion equal to his own came like a shock to him. He was
stunned, bewildered, and allowed her to caress him without giving any in
return. To him there could come no greater joy than this. She loved him,
and her love had withstood the knowledge of his crimes. With a cry he
raised his arms and drew her to him as well as his feeble strength would
permit. He forgot but that she was in reality his wife, and pressed his
lips to hers in a long caress which seemed to draw her very soul from
her body.

The doctor softly left the room. Their confidences were not for
stranger’s ears, and at this moment he felt a stranger. He realized that
he had no part or parcel with the two whom he had left. He felt no
jealousy toward Andrew because of the love Victoria bore him. Only a
sorrow that all this trouble and heartache must come to the woman whom
he would have shielded from every care if God had so willed it, and for
her sake he would also have shielded Andrew. He saw nothing wrong in
this love which each bore the other. For years they had lived in close
companionship. The holiest relation had been sanctified by a precious
gift from God, little Mary. True the world would not look upon Andrew’s
faults and crimes through eyes of love. There would be nothing but
gravest censure and perhaps a prison cell for him. And what a life for
Victoria tenderly reared and nurtured. Her sensitive nature would soon
droop and die under the world’s cruel darts leveled at her and the
child, for what person would believe but that she had been cognizant of
the gabled room, and its imbecile occupant all these years? And little
Mary, upon whose innocent head must fall her father’s sin, and who in
time would be the greatest sufferer? Was it necessary to bawl from the
housetops that the heir to “The Five Gables” still lived, and that a
stain rested upon Mary’s fair name? No, the doctor thought not. If Roger
had even one symptom of returning reason, then it would be a crime to
conceal his existence, but he would never recover. The doctor had
thoroughly examined him and found the brain was irreparably injured,
probably in the railway accident in which as every one supposed he had
lost his life. He might live for years, but his mental condition would
remain unchanged. Then why reveal what would affect the lives of so many
beings when concealment would harm nobody.

The doctor pondered long over this knotty problem. He went over and over
again every little detail bearing upon the matter, and finally concluded
to give his advice, if asked, and Victoria should decide as she saw fit.

Meanwhile, the first ecstacy over, Andrew, with his face still pressed
against Victoria’s, said: “What happiness is mine, dear one! With the
sweet knowledge of your love to strengthen me, I can battle with the
world. What matters it though every hand be against me, if my Victoria
is for me?”

She did not answer him. She was content to lie with her arms about him,
her cheek resting upon his. To hear his voice, weak, but, oh, so dear,
speaking to her in accents of deepest love, was peace to her tired
heart—such peace as she had never known.

Presently he spoke again. “How long have I been ill, Victoria?”

“Do not ask me,” she answered. “I have taken no note of the flight of
time. To me it has seemed an eternity. I have prayed that you might die,
and God, in His great goodness and mercy heeded not my sinful prayer,
but stayed His hand, and gave you back to me from the very portals of
the grave.”

“Why did you pray for my death, Victoria?”

“So that you might be released from all responsibility attending your
wrong-doing. So that Mary might have been shielded from disgrace. So
that I, too, might die with you, for I could not have lived without you.
My love for you has grown until it is stronger than Death; stronger than
prison bars, even. It shall compass you round and protect you from all
danger.”

He raised his hand and laid it upon her head caressingly. How her words
revealed her innermost soul to him! Once he would have risked his life
to hear her utter these sweet words which now she lavished upon him with
frank abandonment, and which were characteristic of a true woman’s
nature, which, when once she loves, flings prudence to the winds and
gives to the object of her adoration the best of her life. So it was
with Victoria. Her love had been of slow growth, and, perhaps might
never have been revealed to her in its entirety but for the sickness of
Andrew. No other thoughts filled her heart but that of sacrificing
herself for him and of sparing him every annoyance.

As Andrew caressed her hair, running his fingers through the little
curls which clustered about her forehead, she felt a drowsiness steal
over her, an exquisite languor which quieted her nerves, and soon threw
her into a restful sleep. Andrew watched her with convicting emotions.
The knowledge of her love for him had come to him with such suddenness
as almost to overwhelm him. He had schooled himself to the belief that
Victoria still loved Roger; that she would evince a just hatred for
himself when he should have sufficiently recovered, and that a felon’s
cell awaited him, where he would be shut away forever from the sight of
his child. Contrary to his imaginings, she had showered the tenderest
caresses upon him, and had told him that she would never leave him, but
would follow him to a prison cell if need be. All this was very
delightful to Andrew, but, nevertheless, he saw his duty as plainly now
as he had seen it at first. Although his body had been weak since his
recovery, his brain had been all the more active and God had pointed out
his duty in a way he could not fail to see. Restitution, although coming
late, must be made to the poor imbecile who had been so greatly wronged.
Sweet as he knew Victoria’s love promised to be for himself, she must
return to Roger though it broke her heart, while he gave himself up to
the authorities, to be dealt with as they should determine. The more
harsh their treatment, the better it would suit him.

Victoria stirred uneasily, and threw her hand over Andrew so that it
rested upon his mouth. He kissed it sorrowfully, reverently, as though
in that kiss he was relinquishing his every hope; and as she opened her
eyes, he closed his own and feigned sleep. She called his name softly,
but he made no motion, and, thinking him asleep, she quietly arose and
left the room.




                             CHAPTER VIII.


Andrew improved rapidly. In a few days he was able to sit up and he ate
ravenously. The doctor came but seldom now. He had not asked again what
hopes Andrew had of the future, but Andrew had not forgotten, and one
day when the doctor was about to leave Andrew raised his hand and begged
him to stay for a time as he had much to say.

“Through your kindness to me and mine,” he said, “you have become one of
the family. A trusted friend. As such I wish to confide in you. To make
you my confessor as it were. I am strong now, and I feel I ought not to
defer this another hour.”

“I am at your service,” replied the doctor gravely, as he removed his
top coat and hat. “Anything which I can do for you will be done
cheerfully, and conscientiously.”

“I know it,” cried Andrew clasping the doctor’s hand which was held out
to him. “I know it. This household would have been like a rudderless
ship without you. I must have an adviser, who shall I turn to but you?”

He held the doctor’s hand tightly for a moment, and then dropping it,
said: “I will commence my confession dating from the time of Victoria’s
visit to my mother. I did not love her at first, but soon I began to
divine her lovely character; to admire her girlish beauty which at first
I could not see. It was not long ere I noticed her dislike for myself.
Her evident avoidance of my society. The more she shunned me the fiercer
grew my passion, yet in her presence I grew timid, and dared not avow my
love. Although I knew I stood not the ghost of a chance of winning her
love, I was insanely jealous of anybody or anything for whom she evinced
the least show of affection. My brother Roger was away from home all
this time, and suddenly there came news of an accident which had
befallen him. My mother and myself went to him at once, and as soon as
he was able to travel we brought him home. That night my passion
overpowered me, and I followed Victoria as she was leaving the house for
a stroll, and frightened her by my vehemence, and she fled from me. Her
coldness only fired my ardor, and finding her a good subject for
mesmerism, I tried my power upon her, brute that I was, and subjected
her to my will. I forced from her the caresses I could not gain any
other way. Yes, you may look at me with horror, doctor, but I am telling
you the truth. I was a miserable sneaking coward, and I do not wish to
spare myself. I will conceal nothing. You know what a handsome fellow
Roger was, and what a taking way he had with women? Well,
notwithstanding his blindness, Victoria fell in love with him, and he
with her. When her mother, Lady Vale, found it out she was furious, and
was for packing Victoria off to England without delay. Her opposition
only hastened the marriage, for taking my mother who was on their side,
they repaired to the judge the very next day and came home man and wife.
I had not a suspicion of what had happened until I heard the servants
talking it over. I went to my mother and demanded an explanation. What I
said I do not recollect, but I know that in my blind unreasoning
passion, I said words which killed my mother as surely as though I had
pierced her heart with a knife.”

The doctor started and looked hard at Andrew. “Then you were the cause
of Mrs. Willing’s sudden death? I was exceedingly puzzled at the time to
determine it.”

“Yes,” replied Andrew bitterly. “To all my other crimes can be added
that of matricide. At the time I did not care if everybody had died
excepting Victoria and myself, but in the years which followed I
sincerely repented of my brutal anger toward my mother, who, if she
loved Roger more than me, loved me far better than I deserved; but, like
all murderers, my repentance came too late.”

“You do not speak of yourself,” interrupted the doctor. “You had no idea
of the effect your hasty words would have upon your mother?”

“I certainly did not, but, nevertheless, her death lies on my
conscience, and a life-time of repentance cannot wipe out the horror of
it from my heart. What next I have to tell you is terrible. It will show
you the blackness of a human heart, the unnatural hatred for a twin
brother. I could not bear him to come near me. When I saw him caressing
Victoria, I could hardly restrain myself from springing at his throat
and choking the life out of him. My brain was busy devising plans
whereby I might separate them without committing actual murder. I will
not say but what I had murder in my heart, but I had not reached that
degree wherein I could muster courage and commit the crime. Nearly a
year had elapsed, when one day Victoria saw a notice of a famous oculist
who had been performing some remarkable cures on people supposed to be
blind. She was all enthusiasm at once. I must take Roger without delay
and visit the oculist. She was in too delicate health at the time to
think of accompanying us. We started, Roger in a state of excitement and
joy at Victoria’s last cheering words, that when they next met his eyes
would behold her face, and I with black thoughts of evil in my heart
toward my brother, for I had resolved that if he regained his eyesight
he would not return alive. We traveled by easy coaches until we reached
the railroad, and on the third day after leaving home we boarded the
train which was to bear us to New York and to the Mecca of Roger’s
hopes. I was moody and silent; Roger was hopeful and in gay spirits. He
built castles of airy structure with lightning rapidity; he lived a
score of future blissful years in less than as many hours, while the
train sped on and on. I have often wondered since if the devil took an
especial interest in that fateful journey. He must have done. As night
approached there came signs of a tempest. Dark threatening clouds rolled
up from the western horizon, only to meet the same rapidly approaching
from the east. Zigzag flashes of lightning, wierd and grandly beautiful,
lighted up for a brief moment the high mountain tops above us and the
deep gorges far beneath. Our train seemed, when revealed thus, as if
hung by a single thread between mountain and rushing torrent. If my mind
had not been so occupied with my own develish thoughts, I might have
enjoyed the magnificent spectacle, but the deep rolling thunder seemed
only a fitting accompaniment to my mood, the one link needed to complete
my gloomy chain of thought. Roger sat quietly in the seat ahead and
seemed partly asleep, his head nodding to the motion of the car as it
swayed to either side. We were going down a rather steep declivity. I
could feel the car tremble like a living creature under the strain
bearing upon it. I felt no fear; only an exhilaration born of the
impending danger.”

“Would we were being borne to perdition,” I murmured. The thought was
scarcely formed when with a shriek human in its agony, the engine gave a
mighty bound, there was a sound as if heaven and earth must have come
together, and I knew no more until I awoke to find the sun shining upon
a scene of ruin and disaster. Terrible groans mingled with curses and
with prayers to God, greeted my ears on every side. My body felt
benumbed; paralyzed. I raised my head and saw that my lower limbs were
firmly wedged between heavy timbers, while my hands were cut and
bleeding. My first thought was of Roger. I called his name. No one
answered, although I could hear subdued voices in tones of pity, trying
to administer words of comfort to the suffering ones around me.
Presently a hooded form bent over me. I raised my eyes.

“‘The Virgin Mary be praised,’ I heard a voice exclaim. ‘This man still
lives. Help, good comrades! Leave the dead and come to the assistance of
the living.’ As in a dream I felt hands working over me, and as the
heavy timbers were drawn from my benumbed limbs, and once more the life
blood began to flow, the exquisite torture was more than I could endure,
and again I fainted.”

Andrew stopped while the doctor wiped the moisture from his brow.

“Do not continue,” said the doctor kindly. “Defer your tale for a time.
You are weary. It is too much for you.”

“No, no!” cried Andrew. “Let me unburden my soul. Oh, doctor! if you
only knew how I have suffered in my mind. What struggles have been mine,
you would pity me, guilty wretch, though I be.”

“I know,” replied the doctor soothingly. “Nothing but sincerest pity
fills my heart for you, Andrew. To err is human. You are but human. At
that time you had no strong belief in Christ as a merciful mediator
between spiritual and temporal things. No light had ever been given
you.”

“Ah, no!” sighed Andrew. “I scoffed at God. The devil only controlled my
heart.”

“To believe in the power of one, you must acknowledge the supremacy of
the other,” said the doctor gravely. “To refute God, means renouncing
the existence of an evil being. To believe there is a devil, one must
also believe there is a God.”

“True! true,” cried Andrew. “I know it now. Then I did not care to
become acquainted with anything divine. My arguments against my Maker
were such as an untaught child might have used; senseless and without
reason. All things which stood in the path between Victoria and myself
must be swept aside, no matter how. She was my religion, my God. To
worship before her at her feet; to die there looking up into the sweet,
spirituelle face; that alone could bring peace to my soul.”

Victoria had come softly into the room without the knowledge of the
invalid, and standing out of his sight had heard these last passionate
words of a despairing heart. She wept. How gladly would she have taken
his head upon her breast, and with sweet, womanly compassion have eased
his troubled soul, but he had chosen to confide in some one not so near
or so dear. She must be content to watch, and wait and listen, while he
told to another the tale of his sin and shame. She watched the doctor,
as with all the tenderness of a woman he bent over the invalid,
smoothing the hair from his forehead. How thankful to God she ought to
feel for this friend raised up so opportunely for them in their
distress, yet she was ashamed that a slight feeling of jealousy should
mingle with her thankfulness. A jealousy born of the great love which
filled her heart, for the man who had so grievously wronged her, yet who
had loved her as few women are ever loved. She saw the mighty struggle
which was going on within him, photographed upon his face. Great drops
of moisture rolled from his brow. His lips trembled with the excess of
his emotion. He grasped the doctor’s hand and gazed longingly, wistfully
at him.

“Doctor will you believe what I am about to tell you? Will you cast all
doubt from your mind that perhaps I am trying to gain sympathy? Will you
have faith in the word of a man who has sacrificed honor, truth,
everything, to his own guilty desires?”

“I will,” replied the doctor gravely.

“I could not gain strength to confess if I saw a shadow of doubt upon
your face,” continued Andrew. “If Victoria only believes also, I care
not for the world’s opinion. Why should I? To briefly conclude my
confession, I will say that when I again regained consciousness I found
my limbs free, and in a few moments with the aid of my hooded Samaritan,
I stood upon my feet, and walked. I told him of my brother, and we at
once began our search. All rancor had fled from my heart. A fear that I
might find him dead drove all other thoughts away. If at that moment I
could have died to save my brother’s life, I would have done so, for
Victoria’s sake. Presently we found him lying stiff and silent beside
the body of a beautiful young woman. One arm was thrown about her as if
for protection. Her head lay upon his breast. A smile, sweet and
peaceful curved the corners of his mouth. Her eyes were wide open, and
the fearful knowledge of approaching death had frozen in their depths. A
jagged hole in each head, at almost the same spot, told the manner of
their death. We decided that they were quite dead, and had been for
hours. I sorrowed, perhaps not so much for Roger, he was infinitely
better off, but for Victoria who just then was totally unfit to bear
this extra burden. I told the circumstances to the monk who had assisted
me, and we agreed that it was best to despatch two telegrams. The first
one should say that Roger had met with a serious accident. After an
interval of an hour we would send the next one announcing his death. We
carried out that plan, the monk driving to the next town to send the
telegrams, while, with the help of others, I carried Roger to the
monastry, which was but a short distance away, there to remain until an
undertaker should come to prepare the body for a safe removal to our
home, for I knew full well Victoria would not consent to a burial so far
away. While I was awaiting the arrival of an undertaker, I returned to
the dreadful scene, which seemed to hold a fascination for me. The monks
were still at work among the dead and dying. The body of the beautiful
unknown lady had been covered by a blanket, awaiting the arrival of
friends to identify her. Not far off I discovered a shapeless mass which
had once been the form of a man. I stooped over it. Not a feature of the
face could be discerned. The trunk had been twisted out of hardly any
semblance to a human being, yet the clothing was intact. Only by
searching the clothing could this body be identified. I knelt down and
felt in the pockets of the coat, not without a sense of horror and
repulsion at the eyrie task, but it had to be done. The monks were busy,
I must be of all the use I could, recoil as I might. I drew forth a
package of papers; one was a marriage certificate dated three days
previous. The names were John Joseph Saxon and Julia Almira Brown. In a
moment I saw, as in a vision, the beautiful face which now was covered
by a coarse blanket, and I remembered where I had seen it before, bright
with animation, and the voice full of girlish laughter, as she spoke to
her companion, a man rather coarse looking, and several years her
senior. I went swiftly back to the silent figure, and, turning away the
blanket, took from the hand a new plain gold ring. It was as I had
thought. She had been a bride hardly three days, for inscribed within
the ring were the initials J. J. S. to J. A. B. To make the
identification more sure, a locket hung from her neck by a chain, and
inside the locket I found the picture of the man whose face I had
connected with hers. Idealized somewhat, as most pictures are, but still
I recognized it as belonging to him who had sat beside the beautiful
girl, only two seats back of my own. On the other side of the locket the
same bright laughing eyes looked out at me, as I remembered them the
night before the accident; eyes which had never known sorrow or care,
but which now stared up at me with that terrible look of horror frozen
in their depths. Yes, these two belonged to each other. It now remained
only for me to ascertain where they had come from, and who were their
friends, so that they might know of their sad fate. As I again began to
search the papers found on the body, I heard a voice at my side say ‘Are
you the chap who brought a man’s body to the monastry a little while
ago?’”

“Yes,” I replied. Something in his voice had sent an icy chill through
my veins. “Well, the man’s alive, and the fathers sent me to fetch you.”

“Alive! I gasped. Roger alive! Man, you know not what you say!”

“‘Perhaps I don’t,’ he answered, with a grin, ‘but I guess the fathers
do. They ought to know a dead man from a live one, they handle ’em often
enough.’”

“I sat down upon the ground beside the body I had been searching,
crushed by the sudden overthrow to all my plans. The first thought was
one of gladness that my brother lived, but only for a moment did I
rejoice. My good angel had hardly whispered ‘I am glad,’ ere the devil,
with his evil tongue, banished the tender, pleading voice, and the
wicked spirit within me which had lain dormant for a time, was aroused
to action. I sprang to my feet, and started toward the monastery,
leaving the man staring after me open-mouthed. I cannot tell you of the
mad thoughts which whirled through my brain as I climbed the steep hill
leading to the monastery. I was hardly conscious of them myself. Only
one thought was uppermost. Roger must die if he still lived. He should
not live to thwart me. I reached the monastery. A monk met me with a
cordial smile.

“‘Good news, my friend,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Your brother lives, and
there is cause for great hope.’”

“I dared not show my face. I buried it in my hands and whispered a
curse. The monk placed his hand upon my bowed head, thinking, no doubt,
that I was rejoicing, and breathed a prayer of thankfulness to Him who
had seen fit to restore my brother. He led me to an iron cot around
which several persons were gathered. ‘This is the injured man’s
brother,’ I heard him say, and then as I uncovered my face, a darkness
came before my eyes, and I felt myself reeling.

“When I came to myself, nobody was in the little cell but the good
father, and a man who proved to be a physician. As I looked enquiringly
at him he said: ‘You are all right now, my dear sir. The good news of
your brother’s recovery came too suddenly. You have passed through
exciting scenes to-day. No wonder they have affected you.’”

“The form on the cot lay still and without motion. Is that my brother? I
asked. ‘Yes,’ replied the doctor, ‘and he will live, but I fear his
brain has been injured. The skull is badly fractured, and I have been
obliged to remove a small part of the brain. It may be weeks ere he is
rational. He is blind, I see?’”

“Yes,” I answered mechanically, for I was hardly aware of the meaning of
his last question. “His words ‘He will live’—and—‘It maybe weeks ere he
is rational,’ were running through my head and repeating themselves
again and again. Oh, to keep the knowledge of his being alive from
Victoria until I knew how to act. The telegrams were by this time on the
way, if not already received. I must either apprise her immediately of
his recovery or keep it forever a secret, allowing her to believe him
dead. But—she might insist upon his body being brought home, and in that
case everything would be exposed. At that moment a horrible thought
flashed upon me. I swear to you, doctor, that it had not occurred to me
until then. Do you believe me?”

“I do,” solemnly answered the doctor, and the motionless woman sitting
within the shadow of the window drapery, bowed her head as if she too
had been implored to answer.

“I felt as if some unknown power controlled me,” continued Andrew. “I
think from that hour I was never again quite myself. Evil whisperings
sounded in my ears. My good angel came no more. My conscience slept. I
looked at the doctor who was bending over Roger, his kindly face beaming
with professional pride at having so skillfully saved a precious life.

“How soon can my brother be removed?” I asked.

“‘Not for some time, my dear sir,’ he answered. ‘Any undue excitement
would result in immediate death. Perfect quiet is absolutely necessary.
I shall be obliged to banish even you from this room for a few days. I
have given him a strong opiate, and I shall keep him under the influence
of it for at least a week.’ He will receive the best of care? I asked.
The doctor bowed his head. ‘There are no better nurses in the world than
these noble men whom you see about you. They have dedicated their lives
to the wants of the needy, the sick and dying. They receive no monetary
reward. They are not allowed to. The rich and poor are received on equal
terms. A millionaire is treated no better than the strolling beggar.
Each is given the best that there is to be had without a thought from
these men of being rewarded on this earth.’”

“I listened to the doctor’s words, meanwhile perfecting the horrible
daring plot working actively in my brain. I had a friend aboard the
train named John Saxon, I said, resolving at once to plunge into the
whirlpool of crime, from which once entered upon there could be no
escape. He was a dark-skinned man like myself, about thirty years of
age. He was accompanied by his wife to whom he had just been married. In
fact, they were on their bridal tour. She was a beautiful woman with
laughing blue eyes. I have seen nothing of them. Can it be that perhaps
they, too, have met with death?”

“The doctor looked up from Roger’s face which he had been studying.”

“‘Let us go down to the wreck and try to discover them dead or alive,’
he said. I will call one of the fathers to watch beside your brother. By
the way, I do not know your name. I would like to make a memorandum of
this case, and submit it to our medical journal.’”

“Williams,” I replied, without a moment’s hesitation. “Andrew Williams.
My brother’s name is Roger.”

“‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, taking a small book from his pocket and
jotting down what I had told him. ‘This case will be noted and watched
with a great deal of interest. Now come, we will search for your
friends. Pray God they may be alive and well.’”




                              CHAPTER IX.


“We descended into the narrow pass where lay in a disordered heap the
great engine, its mighty breath stilled forever; its ponderous wheels
bent and twisted as though made of fine wire, while a huge bowlder of
granite lying across the track, told how the accident had occurred. It
had been loosened from its bed far up the mountain side, and the course
it had taken could be plainly discerned by the broken trees, and the
freshly disturbed earth left in its track.

“A torrent of water swelled by the heavy rains of the night before into
an angry turbulent stream, rushed down the mountain and away across the
track, as if bent upon an evil mission instigated by some wild spirit of
the forest.

“The grandeur of the scene impressed me. For a moment I seemed to
realize how small an atom was my human frame compared to all these
things made by a wise ruler to complete the universe. With one sweep of
His omnipotent hand He could slay the world.

“Then why should I undertake with my baby brain, to perfect a scheme,
when by merely laying one finger upon it He could bring ruin and
disgrace to me. Only for a moment had I these thoughts, then with an
impatient gesture I brushed my forehead as if by so doing I could cast
all doubt and fear to the winds, and I said: Why hesitate? I have gone
too far now to turn back. It is sink or swim with me. Let fate do its
work.

“I had purposely turned in another direction from where I knew lay the
body of John Saxon and that of his beautiful bride. In a few moments I
heard the doctor’s voice calling me. I turned slowly. Even now, that I
had determined nothing should stop me from doing my will, the thought of
recognizing these people as friends, who were total strangers, and who
could not rise to denounce me, made a chilly uncomfortable feeling creep
over me. What if they too should come to life like Roger, and then with
a nervous laugh at my idiotic thoughts, I strode toward where the doctor
was kneeling, and bent over the figure which he had reverently
uncovered. It is she, I said. How beautiful she looks even in death. I
unclasped the chain from about her neck and opened the locket. See, I
cried, this is John, her husband. He, too, is dead, or else he would
have found her ere this. Let us continue our search. With a prayer to
the Holy Virgin Mary the doctor covered the sweet face with its staring
eyes, and soon he found the shapeless trunk and began searching the
pockets. I busied myself over the body of a man some distance away,
until I heard an exclamation from the doctor. ‘I have found him,’ he
cried. ‘Poor man! Poor girl! It is as you have stated. They were only
just married.’ He showed the papers. ‘What will you do?’ he asked. I
will take their bodies home, I replied. It is all I can do.”

Andrew paused as he saw the look of horror on the doctor’s face. “Yes, I
know of what you are thinking,” he continued. “I separated them. The
sweet young wife sleeps under a willow tree, in an old church-yard, many
miles from here. Her childhood home. She was an orphan, with no near
relatives. No one took the trouble to inquire into the matter. I told
the story of the accident to the good people of the village, a little
hamlet numbering twenty-five souls, all told. There was a simple burial
service, and everybody supposed that husband and wife were buried in one
grave, and that one casket contained them both. The body of John Saxon
lies here at ‘The Gables,’ hardly a stone’s throw away. His father was a
seafaring man, a ne’er-do-well when on shore. His mother had died in the
townhouse. No danger of _him_ ever being inquired for; you see I was
careful to get the exact history of these two persons who served my evil
purpose so well. Will God forgive me, think you, for separating husbands
from wives? First, John Saxon, from his blue-eyed bride; next, Victoria,
from my own brother? Oh, God! my sin is grievous.”

Andrew covered his face, and sobs, terrible to hear, burst from his
lips. The doctor, although loathing this man’s sin, could but pity him.
His grief was sincere. His repentance genuine.

“There has been no sin so great, but that God, in His mercy, has
forgiven it,” he said, stroking the invalid’s trembling hands. “He
divines the secret workings of your heart. He knows that you are
repentant.”

“Ah, yes,” sighed Andrew. “Repentant when too late. God’s patience
cannot last forever. There is a limit even to _His_ forbearance. Think
of the years in which I have gone on sinning, even when my conscience
pricked me every moment, and when I knew what the end must be.”

“Then you have suffered the throes of remorse?” questioned the doctor.

“Remorse!” echoed the sick man, beating his breast with his clenched
hands, “Remorse! Oh, could I describe to you the workings of my brain,
the tumults in my heart, which tortured me through the long hours of the
night, while those I loved and had sinned for, were sleeping. This last
year has been to me hourly a hideous dream, from which I feared to
awaken. I knew that my thoughts were driving me mad. I did not care. My
only hope was, that if I went mad, I might be removed to where Victoria
could not reproach me with her sad face, when she at last should know
the truth. Doctor, that woman is Divine. She is not of this earth. I
adore her more, if it be possible, than before my sickness, and I curse
myself when I think that, upon her dear head must fall all the results
of my wrong-doing. The world is harsh. When it knows my story it will
not spare her. She and the child will be the greater sufferers. I would
willingly be torn limb from limb, I would die a thousand deaths, if it
could be the means of sparing them from the jibes and taunts of a cruel,
heartless world.”

Victoria had listened to Andrew silently but not without emotion. She
had followed his every gesture with eyes of love. She heard the
confession of his guilt, but her heart did not harden toward him. It
only grew more tender. His sin had been great, but now he was repentant.
Through his love for her had he sinned. She would show him how much she
was now willing to sacrifice for his sake, to shield him from the world.
She stepped from the curtain which had concealed her, and rapidly
approaching the bedside she threw herself upon her knees, and taking
Andrew’s hands in her own kissed them passionately.

“The world shall never know your secret, my darling,” she cried. “What
good can it bring to the poor imbecile up stairs to publish abroad your
wrong doing? _We_ only are concerned. Let us live as before, more
secluded if you will, only we _must not_ be separated. I cannot consent
to that. To see you behind prison bars, the subject of ridicule from
coarse, low people who could never understand the motive of your crime,
would kill me. And Mary, our sweet little blossom, could never recover
from the ignominy if the finger of scorn should be pointed at her, and
she should be called—a convict’s daughter, and—and a—” Victoria
hesitated, and then with a low sob hid her face in the bed clothing. She
could not pronounce the word which might needlessly wound Andrew, and
which so cruelly branded her little innocent child.

Andrew stroked the bowed head slowly, softly, tenderly. He had not known
until now the depth and passion of this woman’s nature. It was a
revelation to him. She was all his own. Though prison bars might
separate their bodies no power was strong enough to divide their hearts.
He looked at the doctor who was sheepishly wiping his eyes. “The way of
the transgressor is hard,” he said, still stroking Victoria’s head. “My
path of duty lies open before me. I must not swerve from it. Victoria,
my beloved, I can bear my ignominy now that I have the full assurance of
your love. What matters it though prison bars separate us? What care I
for the world’s derision and contempt, so long as I know that the woman
for whom I have sinned loves me, and has freely forgiven me. No
sacrifice seems, too great for me to perform, and justice though tardy
must be accorded my poor brother. My eyes are open to my sin. I cannot
drag you into any further depths of wrong doing. I have worshipped you
as an angelic being; I would not now find too much of woman in your
nature. To me you must remain as you have always been, pure, and moulded
in finer clay than your sister women. Now that you know my crime you
must not share it. We could never feel else than degraded though nobody
but ourselves be the wiser.”

Victoria arose from her knees and kissed Andrew upon his forhead. “As
you will,” she said, striving for composure. “Though my heart should
break, I will do as you shall direct.”

The doctor, who had kept silent, now spoke. His words astonished both
Victoria and Andrew.

“In a certain sense Mrs. Willing is right about this matter,” he said
gravely. “Will you allow me to advise you, Mr. Willing?”

“Most certainly, doctor. Advice from you I should value above all
other.”

“Then I say, as Mrs. Willing has said; keep this crime a secret.”

“What!” cried Andrew, starting from his pillow, “you, too, against me,
when I had resolved to ease my conscience, to at last confess my sin to
the world? Ah, doctor, I had counted on your strong arm to help me do
what is right.”

“But you do not grasp my meaning, my dear Andrew. I do not mean to infer
you shall not suffer. I will try to explain my meaning by asking you a
question. Which had you rather do? Confess your crime to a magistrate,
and receive the penalty which would probably be twenty years in prison,
with the privilege of seeing Victoria and your child once a month; or
would you rather keep your crime a secret, but the penalty shall be a
life-long separation from the woman whom you love? You shall never look
upon her face again?”

Victoria started and looked almost savagely at the doctor; then turning,
she put out her arms toward Andrew. Without a moments hesitation he
answered, giving Victoria a loving glance: “I choose the prison cell
with all its attendant privations. I cannot lose my angel forever.”

With a glad cry Victoria again sunk upon her knees.

“And now you show your selfishness,” said the doctor, sternly. “You
think justice to your brother demands that you shall make known your
crime. I say that it does not. Nothing will be gained by such a
confession, but much will be lost. If Roger were in his right mind, I
should say, ‘Do not hesitate a moment, but give yourself up at once;’
but now it matters not to the poor fellow what is done. His clouded
brain can never recover. It is only a question of time with him. On the
other hand see what misery and shame will descend upon your child by
your confession. She it is who will be obliged to bear the brunt of all
your wrong-doing. There is where your selfishness begins. You would hold
up your child to the scorn of the world, for the mere pleasure of being
able to see the woman you love for a few brief hours every month. You
say you have repented, yet your repentance does not reach so far that
you can bear an entire separation from the being whom you adore. Your
confession will benefit nobody except a parcel of scandal mongers who
will only say, ‘I told you so. Another rich man gone wrong.’ It is as
Mrs. Willing says. They would not understand your motive in confessing
your crime. What I propose is this. If your repentance is sincere, send
Victoria away with her husband, for he has a prior right you must
acknowledge. In administering to his comfort she will also learn to
control her heart, and God will be with her. There is where _her_ duty
lies. It seems hard, but nevertheless it is right. And you must stay
here alone. Your duties all lie here. Your estates would go to ruin
without you. Here is where you are needed. God requires you to confess
your sin to Him in all repentance and sincerity, and then to lead a life
showing your true repentance. Such a life, I believe, is required of you
now. It will be full of self-denial for both of you; of fighting
continually with the old Adam within you; but as Mary grows to
womanhood, you can have the sweet knowledge of filial love which
otherwise, if the truth were known to her, might have been turned to
hatred. I do not believe God requires you to make your sin known to the
world, and none but a religious crank or fanatic would advise you other
than I have done.”

The doctor arose and took his hat. “I will leave you to think it over,
my dear fellow. Your good sense will tell you to decide as I have
advised. Mrs. Willing has already said she will abide by your decision.”

He shook the invalid’s hand, patted Victoria upon her bowed head as she
still knelt beside the bed, and left the room.

No word was spoken between the two who were so near together, yet who
felt themselves being separated by a hand powerful, but tempered with a
divine love and compassion most soothing to their bleeding hearts.

At last Andrew raised Victoria’s head and looked into the sad depths of
her tearful eyes. Then gathering her to his breast with all his feeble
strength, he placed his lips to her’s in a long caress which she felt to
be one of renunciation for all time.




                            BOOK THE THIRD.




                               CHAPTER I.


                           FIVE YEARS AFTER.

At the most northern apex of Great Britain there is a quaint village
called Dunscansby Head. The turbulent waters of Pentland Firth wash the
beach, along which are scattered a few simple huts inhabited principally
by fishermen’s families. No more wild or lonely spot could well be
imagined. It seems almost shut off from the entire world, and a place
which none but those who wished to escape from all society would have
chosen. One would be as completely hidden as though buried forever, and
here Victoria had brought Roger accompanied by Adam, and a stout Scotch
woman whom she had picked up as she passed through Scotland.

Why Victoria had chosen this particular spot she could not have
explained if she had been questioned. When it had been decided that she
should take Roger away—that she must separate from Andrew perhaps for
all time—she had a desire to seek some place far removed from her
home—and those who were so dear to her—a place where she might live
unknown, and where nobody knew her. The doctor had said that a
sea-voyage might be beneficial to Roger. Victoria grasped at the
suggestion with eagerness. With the ocean between her and her love, she
might find peace, so hurriedly gathering a few necessary articles
together, she set out for New York, bound upon a journey to where she
knew not. The doctor accompanied her at Andrew’s urgent request. The
idea of the tenderly-nurtured woman—whose every wish had been gratified
almost before it was spoken—going out into the world with an imbecile,
and a tongueless servant as her only companions, was gall and wormwood
to the man who knew that his sin was the cause of her banishment. As his
bodily health improved his mind became stronger and more active, and he
would sit by the window looking out over his fair lands—fair no longer
to him because the one who had made them enjoyable was about to leave
them, and perhaps forever. If Victoria entered the room his eyes
followed her about hungrily. Often when she passed near him he would
secretly catch her gown and press it to his lips. If she turned suddenly
toward him as if about to speak, she only saw him stolidly gazing out
the window, seemingly unconscious of her presence.

This, too, was a bitter, trying time for her. Another burden had been
laid upon her already overtaxed shoulders. The doctor objected to little
Mary accompanying her. Much as she rebelled at the thought of parting
with her child, she acknowledged the doctor’s superior wisdom in
ordering Mary’s detention. The child was old beyond her years, her
memory was wonderfully retentive. If Victoria persisted in taking her
she must expect to be asked very embarrassing questions as the child
grew. Now, if left behind, and the subject never referred to, the old
man she had seen in the gabled room would soon fade from her memory. Not
so if she was brought into daily contact with him as she must
necessarily be if she accompanied Victoria.

Another thing the doctor argued—and here he showed fine diplomacy—was
Andrew’s loneliness if bereft of all his loved ones. The doctor pictured
the long winter days when Andrew would see no cheering faces. The still
longer nights when his chamber would be empty, and no restless little
figure tumbling in its crib, or a sweet, shrill voice shouting for a
drink of water. Victoria could not withstand this last plea. The thought
of brightening Andrew’s loneliness by sacrificing her own pleasure
tempered her keen anguish at leaving this dear bone of her bone, and
flesh of her flesh, and so one day when Andrew had come in from his
first short walk, she said with a smile in which there was no shadow of
the fierce pain at her heart: “I am going to leave our sunbeam with you,
Andrew. She is such a chatterbox, and will enliven the long winter days,
and the little crib beside your bed will not be empty when you waken in
the night.”

Andrew stretched out his hands and drew Victoria to him. “God bless
you,” he said reverently. “God watch over and protect you, but He will.
You are of His chosen ones. No harm can ever come to such as you. I have
longed to keep Mary, but I would not broach the subject and ask this
sacrifice of you. It would have been too presuming on my part, but now,
now that you have offered how gladly do I accept. The touch of her baby
fingers will keep me from all sin. The sound of her sweet voice will
heal the canker which seems eating into my heart. Again I say God bless
you Victoria.”

He had put her from him without a caress. She had been sacred to him
from the day when against his will he had chosen liberty without her, to
prison bars with the occasional light of her face to cheer him; and then
he slowly ascended the stairs to the gabled room where Roger sat
laughing at the queer antics of Adam, who was creeping about the room on
all fours, making noises in imitation of a dog, cat, sheep, cow, or
anything he happened to think of.

“Good, Adam,” cried the imbecile clapping his hands, “nice Adam, do it
again, my Adam.” He turned when he heard Andrew’s footsteps, and a
troubled look came over his face. “Go away,” he whined. “You will make
Adam stop. Go away, I tell you, you ain’t wanted here.”

Andrew stood sadly gazing at the mental wreck before him. How gladly now
would he welcome the light of returning reason in that face which he had
so hated. With what joy would he bring light to those darkened eyes if
he only had the power.

Roger was beating the air with his hands. His hearing was most acute,
and he knew that Andrew still lingered. “Adam,” he called, “put that
thing out. I can hear it breathe; it annoys me.”

Andrew put out his hand and touched his brother. “My poor Roger,” he
said. “Don’t you know my voice? cannot you remember brother Andrew?”

Again the troubled expression crossed the imbecile’s face, but only for
a moment; then he raised his hand as if to strike at something. “Go
away,” he cried. “Adam won’t be a cat so long as you stay. Cry like a
cat, again, Adam,” and as Adam set up a series of meows which made Roger
shout with glee, Andrew turned sadly and left the room. As he entered
his study he saw his chair in its accustomed place before the
writingdesk. He threw himself into it and bowing his head upon the desk
he wept long and sorrowfully. No need for this man to go before a jury
to receive sentence. Every hour his punishment hung heavier upon him;
every moment his conscience lashed him with greater fury, until, as now,
he was prone to cry: “Enough, my God! enough!”

As the time came for Victoria’s departure he tried to cast aside the
gloom which depressed him, and appear cheerful so as not to add one
straw to the brave woman’s burden. He assisted the doctor to remove
Roger from the house at night when all was quiet. The doctor had given
his patient a strong opiate, so that he would not attract notice by
crying out, and himself acting as driver, with Andrew and Adam caring
for Roger, he drove twenty miles to an out of the way station, there to
await the coming of Victoria.

The next night Andrew drove home alone, and when Victoria bade him
good-bye at the station the following day, the lookers on had not a
suspicion of the tragedy overshadowing the fair, self-possessed woman,
who shook her husband’s hand so calmly, and who pressed only one kiss on
the soft cheek of her baby girl with an almost indifferent air. Nor had
these same people any thought save that of envy, for the sad-eyed,
stern-faced man, who stood watching the train bearing out of his sight
perhaps forever, the being who had been all the world to him for so many
years. To those about him he was the richest man for miles around; he
had just recovered from an illness which would have killed any ordinary
man, and therefore, as one person said—looking after Andrew as he strode
from the station with Mary perched upon his shoulder: “That’s the
luckiest man in Virginia. Everything he touches turns to gold. He has
had more positions of trust offered him than any other man in the
country. A word from him carries more weight than as if the Governor had
spoken. Everybody envies him.” But if that man could have seen the
object of his envy a few moments later, when, after escaping from the
prying eyes of people, he was slowly driving homeward, there would have
been nothing but pity in his heart for the wretched man. He had taken
Mary upon his knee, and had buried his face in her sunny curls. For a
few moments he said nothing; his grief was too deep for words; while
Mary, with a grave air far beyond her years, patted his head with her
soft hand. She had not shed a tear at parting with her mother. Victoria
had had a long talk with her the night before, and Mary felt the
importance of her charge. Mamma had told her she must not cry because if
she did papa would get sick again. That everything funny she saw during
the day she must tell papa at night so as to cheer him. That she must
never do anything to annoy him. That she must try to be his little
comfort until mamma returned, which Mary reasoned would be to-morrow.
She stroked the hair back from her father’s hot throbbing temple, and
her touch soothed him. He hugged her closer, and thought how wise
Victoria had been to leave him this jewel; this priceless pearl.

“Love me hard, little one,” he said, trying to master his emotion. “Papa
has need of all your love. He is sick unto death.”

“But you won’t get any sicker if I don’t cry, will you?” queried Mary,
peering anxiously in her father’s face. “I did want to cry awful bad
when mamma kissed me, and a heap of gullops came up in my throat, and I
thought I’d never get ’em all down again. What makes gullops come up in
my throat, papa? Do you have them?”

“Sometimes, dear child,” replied Andrew, smiling at Mary’s quaint
question. “Where did you hear that expression?”

“Oh, from old Chloe, papa. Whenever any of the pickininys gets choked or
anything, she always goes for them with her shoes, and cracks them on
the back, and says: ‘Dere’s dat chile gullopin’ again. Some day he’ll
snuffocate, suah.’”

Andrew laughed and kissed the bright winsome face of his child, while
again he thought of Victoria’s wisdom in leaving to him her treasure.
Ah, what watchful care would he take of her, so that when the right time
should come, he might place her in Victoria’s arms and say: “This link,
which has bound us, has not been broken, only unclasped. Take it, that
once more may we be united.”

Meanwhile Victoria sat like a statue, her dry eyes looking out upon the
bleak hills, and gray overcast sky, as the train sped swiftly on. To her
excited fancy all nature mourned at her departure, and somehow the
thought comforted her. If the sun had smiled, and the birds had sung,
she could not have borne it. She had drained her cup of sorrow to the
last dregs. One more drop, and she would have succumbed. She had a wild
longing at the last moment to throw her arms around Andrew’s neck before
all the crowd, and beg him to confess right there and then, so that she
might not leave him, but stay and defy the world for his sake. Anything,
however dreadful, was better than this separation, which seemed to be
tearing her heart from her body; but she looked at Mary and forbore.
“For her dear name,” she whispered, and then her face, wearing a smile,
her heart burning like a volcano, she stepped aboard the car, and was
borne away from those she loved so passionately to where stern duty
awaited her.

Upon meeting the doctor and his companions she was the same
self-possessed woman who had parted from Andrew. No tears, no mention of
regrets. She fixed the pillows for Roger with a deft hand which did not
shake or tremble. The doctor marveled as he watched her. “Made to
endure,” he murmured, “made to endure.”

The party traveled leisurely until they reached New York, and after the
doctor had placed them upon the best packet-ship bound for England, he
turned his face toward home.

“Be good to my loved ones,” were Victoria’s parting words. “Make your
home with Andrew. It will cheer him.”

“I will,” replied the doctor. “Keep a brave heart, Mrs. Willing.
Remember the same God watches over us all.”

Upon reaching England Victoria sought a quiet villa in the suburbs of
London, where she hoped to be free from prying eyes. She engaged two
maid servants, who seemed to be quite steady, and not inclined to
gossip; and a man of all work, deaf apparently to anything going on
around him, but alert to every order given him by his mistress. A model
English servant. Here Victoria lived in absolute retirement for nearly a
year. She was not unhappy. The consciousness of having done her duty
toward the poor imbecile—who now clung to her more tenaciously than he
had ever done to Adam—served to sweeten her life. Then she did not
forget the poor and unhappy beings who were all about her. Her health
demanded exercise, and every day, rain or shine, she drove about the
city. Usually she took Roger with her, for although he could not see, he
delighted in the rapid motion of the carriage, and was never so quiet or
tractable as when riding with his hand clasping Victoria’s.

In her drives Victoria saw much of the squalid misery existing among the
poor of London. Her heart often bled as she looked upon these scenes,
and she resolved that in some way she must contribute her share toward
helping her lowly, unfortunate sisters. Especially was she interested in
the little children, whose wan poverty-lined faces, made prematurely old
looking by hunger, appealed to her heart, and carried her memory back to
old Virginia, and a sweet, happy face which had never known hunger or
care. To think with Victoria was to act. When her plans became settled
in her mind she went to her bankers, and told them that she wished to
draw on Mr. Andrew Willing for ten thousand pounds. It was a large
amount, and naturally they refused to accommodate her until they had
first heard from Mr. Willing. “Communicate with him at once,” she said,
with a smile. “I will call for the answer in a month.” She had no fears
as to what the answer would be. She knew well that Andrew would send her
the last penny of his fortune, and never ask what disposal she meant to
make of it; so at the expiration of a month she walked into the bank
with a confident air, and smiled as the banker deferentially handed her
a letter which read: “Honor a draft for any sum of money Mrs. Willing
chooses to ask for.”

A week from that time a site had been chosen, and ground broken for
destitute, crippled and orphaned children.

It had been agreed between Andrew and herself that they would not
correspond. Both felt that such a barrier was needed. So much might be
said on paper; but every day Victoria wrote a few words to Mary,
sometimes enclosing a line to the doctor; and the foreign mail which
left England twice a month, never failed to have among its letters a
bulky package addressed to Andrew Willing. Victoria thought best to
address all letters in Andrew’s name, so as to allay all suspicion which
might arise in the mind of the village postmaster.

Of course, every gossip in the town had his or her opinion as to the
queer doings at “The Five Gables.” Some of the more fertile minded
averred that Andrew’s illness had made him mildly insane, except at
times, when he would become furious, and in one of these spells he had
tried to kill his wife, therefore fearing for her life she had fled to
England where she was living in close retirement with her mother. What
more natural, but why had she left her child behind to be perhaps killed
by the maniac in one of his spells? This question was a puzzler to the
good people, who felt as if some secret was being withheld from them
which if told would make a dainty morsel to chew upon and roll about on
their tongues until thoroughly masticated; and naturally Andrew’s
neighbors—if they could be called such, the nearest house being a full
half-mile away—agreed that they were shamefully imposed upon. The fact
of the doctor having taken up his residence at “The Five Gables,” lent
still further credence to the story of Andrew’s insanity, and he was
looked upon as a dangerous man.

The doctor was obliged to parry many skillfully worded questions from
his patients, who suddenly evinced a warm interest in his well-being,
asking him “if he were not afraid to live in the same house with Mr.
Willing, whom rumor said was becoming more dangerous every day, and who
had actually thrown a plate at Pete’s head just because the soup was not
hot enough.”

The doctor felt a keen pleasure in mystifying his questioners, who
concluded after a time that they had made no headway in solving the
secret; so like all other mysteries this too sank into the background,
and gave place to the latest scandal, until one day it was suddenly
revived by a person whose veracity had never been questioned, and who
swore that having occasion to pass “The Five Gables” at the solemn
midnight hour, he had been astonished, almost paralyzed, when he saw the
western gable brilliantly lighted up and forms passing to and fro, while
the weird sound of a violin—“played by no human hand he could
swear”—floated out to his ears on the still evening air.

This story caused the wildest excitement among the villagers, who
gathered in little knots at the street corners, or sat around on sugar
barrels in the principal grocery, discussing this new feature which was
the most startling of anything so far connected with the mystery of “The
House of Five Gables.” Night was welcomed eagerly, and for hours after
darkness fell, the eyes of the whole population were turned toward the
house way up on the high cliff. Even the huge comet which was then
visible, and which was an object of fear and terror to most of the
villiagers, sank into insignificance beside this ghostly inhabitant of
the western gable, in the house where so many mysteries were being
concealed.

The story of the beautiful slave girl who had held court in that same
gable more than fifty years ago, was again revived by old residents, who
shook their gray heads and wagged their toothless jaws, while they
predicted that some dreadful evil was about to befall the present owner,
when ghosts which had lain quiet for half a century came back to revel
in the haunts they had once inhabited. Several lights could be seen in
the lower part of the house, but the western gable was still shrouded in
darkness. As the night wore on the lights gradually disappeared, usually
heralded by some urchin more vigilant than the rest, who would shout:
“There goes one. Only three more now to be put out,” and finally as the
last one disappeared, everybody watched with bated breath, as they
waited to see what would happen next. At last a brilliant light shown
out like a meteor from the western gable. A sigh went up from the
watching people, interrupted for one brief moment by a diminutive urchin
of an enquiring turn of mind, who had climbed a tall post to be nearer
the exciting spectacle, and who, as the bright light shot out—his
footing being insecure—fell with a howl upon the heads of those beneath
him, where he was caught by his enraged father, and after a
spanking—administered heartily and accompanied by the satisfied grunts
of those most interested—was thrust out of sight behind his mother’s
skirts, where smothered sobs and surreptitious kicks, told of the spirit
not having been entirely quelled, while between sobs could be heard a
small voice crying piteously “to be let to see the ghost.”

Superstition had thoroughly taken hold of every one present, and the
women would clutch each other by the arm as a form passed between the
window and the light, while they whispered: “There she is now! Can’t you
see her long black hair?”

As they were standing fully fifty rods from the house, the question
would seem rather superfluous unless one was gifted with eyesight of
telescopic power, but to their excited fancy the form of Bella, as they
had heard of her, was now reproduced by this specter, and one person
described her as being dressed in white loose garments, waving her arms
wildly as she passed back and forth; while another solemnly averred that
the ghost had simply a blanket wound around her in Indian fashion, and
wore feathers in her hair.

At last a man stepped out from the excited mass, and boldly declared,
“Ghost, or no ghost,” he would volunteer to go up to “The Gables,” and
arouse its inmates and offer his services to allay the specter. A low
rumble of approval greeted this brave declaration, but suddenly a woman
darted from the crowd and threw herself upon him. “Thou art daft, mon,”
she cried. “Wou’dst thee leave the childer wi’out a faäther, and me a
widdy? Let Maister Willin’ tak’ care o’ his spooks, hissen, and thee
abide here wi’ we uns. If thou goo’st I’ll never see thee mo’ore.”

“Shut up thine idle croakin’, woman,” rejoined the man, angrily
unclasping her clinging arms. “I war a fighter i’ Lancashire, afraid o’
nothin’, an’ wi’ anither gude mon to help, I’ll doon tha spook.”

“I’m with you,” spoke a voice, and a brawny fellow with muscles like
iron, and sledge-hammer fists, joined the bragging Englishman.

The crowd watched these two as they slowly climbed the cliff, until the
darkness hid their forms, and then in groups of three or four they
discussed the probability of their companions’ safe return; while the
wife of the Englishman was sobbing bitterly a little way apart, and was
looked upon as already a widow, and the two mites clinging to her skirts
as orphans.

“I mind Tom Butts, who chased a wild cat into the mountains,” said a
woman in a sepulchral whisper, which was plainly heard by “the widow.”
“It led him on and on, till finally it turned into a giant man, over
seven feet tall, and Tom never come back.”

A prolonged wail from the weeping “widow” stopped further reminiscences,
and the woman failed to enlighten her hearers, how it became known if
Tom had not returned, that the wild cat had turned into a giant man.




                              CHAPTER II.


The light still continued to shine from the gabled window. The ghost had
not been exorcised as yet, for still the form flitted to and fro, and
one man casually remarked “that as ghosts knew everything, it had no
doubt been warned of the hostile approach of the Englishman and the
brawny blacksmith, and had sent out an evil power to slay them,” and
then he facetiously added, “that he wished he had taken his horses to be
shod, as he minded to that day. Now the nearest smithy was ten good
miles away. Jack would never show up to shoe any more horses.”

Another ear-splitting wail from a gray-haired woman, presumably Jack’s
mother, and a chorus of voices crying, “for shame, Joe Bull, to joke
over the poor lad. Go away wi’ you for an evil sperrit yoursen’,” caused
the would-be joker to slink into the background covered with ignominy.

At last a sound as of returning footsteps down the steep cliff was
heard, and a subdued murmur like the hum of bees began to drift through
the crowd. Was it Jack and his companion returning? or could it be the
evil spirits, who, having destroyed those two brave men, were now bent
on wiping out from the land all those who had lent a helping hand toward
exposing the ghost of “The Five Gables.”

“Let’s be movin’,” said one woman gathering up her brood in the ample
folds of her gown, much as if they had been fagots of wood. “I never war
for disturbin’ the poor spooks. Let em trouble them as has a evil
conscience. Poor folks like we uns has no use for ghosts.” Her words
electrified her hearers, and with one accord they turned to depart. Some
with dignity as if the sound of ghosts’ footsteps were an every day
occurrence with them; others looking back over their shoulders fearfully
trying to penetrate the darkness, and the mystery of those fast
advancing footsteps.

“Hoo, hoo,” sounded a voice which seemed to come from the earth
underneath their very feet. “Hoo, hoo.”

A nervous negro woman with a cry of “Dey is arter we uns suah. I took
dat par o’ stocks’ jes fer fun, good ghos’, I’ll gub em back to missy
to-morrow, suah,”—was the cause of a general stampede, and men, women
and children, made wild with fear by the woman’s loud yells, stumbled
over each other in their frantic efforts to get to a place of safety,
but the hurrying feet behind them were coming, were gaining on them, and
some of the weaker ones realizing their inability to escape, sank upon
their knees and gave themselves up to their dreadful fate with a wail of
despair.

“What’s all this bloomin’ row about?” exclaimed a familiar voice much
blown from hard running. “Any body’d think the very de’il himsel’ war
after thee, folks.”

“Oh! is it thee, my gud mon?” cried the Englishman’s wife with a scream
of joy. “We were daft wi’ fear. We thoc’ht the ghosts had swallied thee,
an’ war coomin’ down tha brue for tha rest o’ we uns.”

A hearty laugh from the two “brave men” did much toward restoring the
courage of the fleeing people, who now turned and crowded around the
heroes, eager to hear of their adventures. Many men solemnly shook them
by the hand, saying “glad to see thee back again,” as if they had just
returned from a long and perilous journey, while the women more curious
asked in awe-struck voices: “Wha’ did thee see, Jack? War it really the
ghost o’ that yaller gal, Bill?”

“Naw,” sneered the Englishman with a wave of his hand. “We war weel
laughed at for meddlin’ wi’ what war none o’ our business. Maister
Willin hissen’ ha’ opened thot windie for ti’ luke at t’ comet i’ tha’
sky. He ha’ a telescope brocht fra foreign parts an’ it be woonderfu’.
He let us luke at uns, ha Jock?”

“Yes,” said Jack, who seemed quite crestfallen and inclined to hide his
head. “Yes, but I had rather found the ghost.”

“Tell us what you seen, Bill?” cried his hearers eagerly.

“Oh, it war’ woonderfu’, I tell thee, woonderfu’. Thee joost luke
through a round hole made o’ glass, and thee seeist this thin’ awa’ oop
i’ tha sky, like a fiery furnace. Beats thy forge all to nothin’, hey
Jock?”

Jack made no answer. He was plainly disgusted with himself for having
been made a fool of. The Englishman continued: “An’ wha’ do’est thee
think, gude people. Maister Willin’ say’es as how that thin’ has a tail
one hundred an’ feefty thousand miles long.”

Several laughed as Bill delivered this speech, and one man said: “I
knowed Andrew Willing were daft. Only a man all wrong in the upper story
would be sayin’ an’ doin’ such crazy things. The next thing you’ll be
tellin’ us Bill, is that the doctor has gone mad, too.”

“It war he as ope’d the dure fer me an’ Jock,” replied Bill, “an’ he
near cracked ‘is ’ead i’ two joost laughin’ at hour fuleishness. ‘Jock,’
’e said, ‘I thought you ’ad more brains nor this. I woonder h’at you.
Coom h’up steers, Maister Willin’ don’t make no secret o’ that gabled
room. It are open ti respection’, or somethin’ like that ’e said, so we
went h’in kind o’ fearfu’ like.”

“I was’ent fearful,” spoke up Jack quickly. “Speak for yourself, Bill.”

“Thee got as white h’as a sheet, mon,” returned Bill excitedly. “Thee
was’t afeer’d ti luke aside. Thee nee’r expected ti come out’en theer
alive, an’ wi’ a whole skin.”

“Go way with you for a bloody liar,” retorted Jack hotly. “I never was
afraid of anything yet.”

“Haa liar his it!” cried Bill, squaring off. “Ca’ me haa liar, do’est
thee? Hi’ll teach thee to hinsult thy betters.”

“Come, come; stop your quarreling,” said a man stepping between them.
“Don’t you know that Jack could wipe up the earth with you, Bill, if he
just wanted to? Why you would be a dead man in two seconds. See,
daylight is breaking, and the most of us are chilled through. We’ll have
snow before many hours. Let us all go to our homes, and to-night we will
meet at the post office, and you can finish your tale.”

Jack had turned away in disdain as Bill squared at him. “Fight that
thing,” he muttered, “well I recon as how I want a man to stand up
against, not a puppy,” and looking defiantly at the crowd he walked
toward his forge, while the others slowly dispersed to their separate
homes.




                              CHAPTER III.


The doctor and Andrew had many a quiet laugh over the ghost of the
western gable, and the light still continued to shine as formerly, but
nobody disturbed their midnight star-gazing after that; although not a
few among the more superstitious inhabitants still looked askance at
Andrew whenever he appeared in the village, and some even whispered that
he was in league with the evil spirits, and had compelled the doctor to
join hands with him, and that the devil himself had been seen walking
arm in arm with Andrew on the little balcony under the gabled window,
many and many a wild stormy night when neither man or beast hardly dare
venture out. Of course, such absurd stories never found their way to
either Andrew’s or the doctor’s ears, but Andrew had not failed to
observe a change in the general bearing of those whom he chanced to
meet, a furtive glance of the eye perhaps, or a sudden crossing to the
other side of the street to avoid meeting him face to face; but he was
too much engrossed in his own affairs to allow such petty trifles to
worry him. He did not wish for any man’s society. The doctor and he
lived very comfortably together. The men whom he met in a business way
could not complain of any inability on his part in a business
transaction. His brain was all right there whatever it might be on other
things. His silent, rather morose countenance, was uninviting to would
be questioners, and not one among his acquaintances had dared to ask him
why Victoria had gone abroad, or why she remained away so long; and he
who never bothered over his neighbor’s affairs did not dream of
enlightening anybody by volunteering information on a subject in which
only himself and Mary were interested. He had no idea of the frequent
tea gatherings, where sometimes he and his were the sole topics of
conversation. It would hardly have troubled him if he had known, so many
weightier subjects filled his mind.

To him the days which brought the foreign mails were the only ones of
all the month worth living for. He always went for the precious freight
himself, taking Mary with him. The child had come to know those big
envelopes with the funny seals on them, as coming from mamma, and he
always allowed her to break the seal, and then as eagerly as the child
listened, just so eagerly would he read the dear words, penned by loving
fingers which he knew longed to clasp his own. Although addressed to the
child, Andrew knew that every word was written for himself, and the
endearing expressions were kissed and kissed again, until the paper
seemed to him to almost take on life under his caresses. He would be
more cheerful for a time after one of these missives came to cheer him,
and the doctor hailed the foreign mail as eagerly as either Mary or her
father, for it meant a brighter household for a few days at least, and
too, the cheering news of Victoria’s good health and evident contentment
made glad the doctor’s heart.

It was he who suggested teaching Mary how to print, so that Victoria’s
life might be brightened by a letter from her baby girl, written all by
herself, with no suggestions or corrections from either him or her
father. Mary set about her task willingly, and was indefatigable in her
efforts at learning how to spell and print; and it was a wonderful
production which one day nearly a year after Victoria’s exile, was given
by Mary herself with many charges to the village postmaster, that he put
that letter sure in the foreign post-bag, for it was going to her dear
mamma who was very lonely way off across the big water.

Victoria, although not unhappy, had many days of longing to hold Mary in
her arms. Sometimes she would awaken in the silent night, and put out
her hands expecting to clasp the beloved child to her breast, so vivid
had been her dreams, but alas, when aroused to full consciousness, when
she realized how far away from her was the darling of her heart, then at
such times did she rebel, and when morning came the evil spirit within
her could only be exorcised by her going to the children’s home, and
herself superintending some part being built for Mary’s sake. She always
felt better after one of these visits, and every day she wrote accounts
of the progression of her work to the little daughter far away, and told
her of the little sick and crippled children who were anxiously waiting
for the completion of their home, which had been named “The Mary Willing
Home for Destitute Orphaned and Crippled Children.”

Victoria’s mail was received through her bankers, and the days on which
she might expect letters were always anxious ones to her. The doctor
never failed to write a few lines, telling her that all was well with
those she loved, and on this particular day she left “The Home” much
earlier than usual, and drove around to her bankers, for having read of
the arrival of a mail-ship, she was sure there must be mail for her.
There was, and a smile of gladness lit up her usually sad face as the
old clerk handed her a large bundle of papers, and three bulky letters.
“I am especially favored this time,” she said, electrifying the man with
that unusual smile. “You do not know, perhaps, what it is to feel that a
cruel treacherous ocean separates you from those whom you love.”

Tears stood in the old man’s eyes. The sweet glad smile had awakened sad
memories. “But you hope to meet your loved ones alive and well some
time, dear lady,” he said so sorrowfully that Victoria looked at him
interested. “They have not crossed that boundless ocean, which never
brings the loved ones back when once they are upon its waters.”

“Ah, no,” replied Victoria, “I have been spared that, thank God! But you
speak as one who has sorrowed. Have you lost many dear ones?”

“All, all! my lady. Five lovely children taken in their innocence before
they had known evil. The sixth was spared to me until she grew to
womanhood. Last year she too sickened and died, leaving a little flower
in her stead, a frail little blossom. Last week my good wife was taken
from me; now only the child and I are left.”

Such hopeless resignation was shown in those words, that Victoria felt
her eyes moisten. She noticed the threadbare clothes, the worn black
tie, the frayed edges to the spotless cuffs. His entire outfit if sold,
would not have brought a pound; but the marks of a gentleman were patent
in the spotless linen, the well kept nails, the general appearance of
the whole man. Victoria had heard of the meager salaries which most bank
clerks in England received. Hardly enough to keep body and soul
together, and she wondered how she could assist this man without
offending his pride. She thought of the little granddaughter. Oh yes,
here was a way surely.

“I have a little daughter in America,” she said, “I have not seen her in
nearly a year. I love all children for her dear sake. I would like to
know your grandchild, perhaps she would cheer and comfort me. Let me
have your address. I will call with your permission and take her
driving. How old is she?”

“Four years, my lady,” replied the old man, “but she is a frail little
thing. I thank you for your kindness. A drive once in a while might do
her world’s of good. I don’t have much money to spend on extras like
that.” He glanced at his clothing, and Victoria thought she saw a shade
of bitterness cross his face.

“I will call at your house after the bank closes this afternoon,” she
said, “and take both you and the child for a long drive. What is your
address, please?”

“No. 20 Deptford road,” he replied, his eyes glistening with pleasure.
“I lodge with a widow named Mrs. Ball. My name is James Catherwood Vale;
my little granddaughter’s name is Dora.”

Victoria nearly dropped the pencil and paper from her hand, while she
stared at the unconscious face before her. James Catherwood Vale! the
name of her own father’s brother who had been disinherited because he
had married a governess. Could this be he? Catherwood had been the
maiden name of her paternal grandmother, Dora Catherwood. Dora Vale, her
cousin, was the one who should inherit her own little fortune which she
had forfeited by marrying Roger. Now, this man, James Catherwood Vale,
had a granddaughter named Dora. How strangely like a fairy tale if this
should indeed prove her uncle.

These thoughts flashed through her mind with lightening rapidity, while
she regained her composure, and jotted down the address he had given
her.

“I will surely call for you,” she said, holding out her hand cordially;
and as James Vale clasped it in his, he wondered why this strange lady
should take this sudden interest in him and his.

He had seen her come in and go out of the bank many times within the
past year. He had even handed her the mail more times than one, and he
had also wondered what great sorrow could have befallen her, for never
until to-day, had he seen a smile upon the sad face. A smile which
transformed it into almost angelic beauty.

As Victoria entered her carriage she told the driver to take Oxford
street, and drive to Hyde Park. She did not wish to go home for a while
where Roger was waiting, with an avalanche of questions the moment she
came in, and who would have to be amused for hours perhaps, so that she
might not have a moment for quiet thought. She also wanted to read her
letters, and as she settled herself among the cushions of her carriage,
she thought: “I hope this man may prove to be my uncle, and the little
one my cousin. I shall not feel quite so isolated.”

For the first time since receiving her mail she glanced at the different
handwritings. “Two from the doctor,” she said, “and, what is this? Oh, I
believe the dear child has written to me all by herself. None but a
child directed this envelope.” With eager fingers she tore the envelope
apart, and after glancing at the heading of the letter pressed it to her
lips, and kissed the queer, ill-formed letters again and again. “Ah, how
precious,” she murmured, “my baby’s fingers have become tired and weary
over this task, but for mamma’s sake they have kept on.” She held the
paper from her and gazed at it with a world of love in her eyes. “There
is not money enough in all England to buy this little scrap of paper,”
she cried, “no, nor in the world.”

When she became calmer she began to read the letter aloud. She loved to
hear her voice pronounce the misspelled words, printed by loving
fingers, and which came as messengers of peace to the tired starved
heart, which had longed, oh so many times, to feel the touch of those
baby hands. The letter was characteristic of the child, and Victoria
laughed and cried by turns as she read: “My deer’est and truly
butyful’est Mamma Wont you be s’prised when you get this well I reken
you wil’ papa and uncel doctor has teeched me to print and spel’ but I
can print better than I can spel’ papa sey I must rite this al’ bi
miself for you wil’ think mor’ of it if he don’t cor’ect it wil’ you
must rite in your next and let me no uncel docter sey I’l do beter next
tim’ but I like it O mamma before I forget to tel’ you I must tel’ you
Jenny my pretty pony has a little baby the swe’test thing you ever saw
with long leggs as long as Jennys Jenny keeps liking it al’ the tim’ al’
over with her tong I’m not sure tung is spel’ rite but I mus’ not ask
papa for he wil’ not help me if I do for he sed he wood not and he
alwa’s dus as he sey O mamma pete has mar’id the gurl who puts on my
sho’s and stokings They went off one da’ and when they com’ ba’k petes
mama gave him such a beeting that Rosa went criing to papa and sed they
got marid so they did and papa laffed and gave them five dollars apece
and Rosa sey she’d get marid ev’ry day for five dol’ars and pete sey he
get drub’ed every day to for five dol’ars so I spose they ar’ hapy O
mamma aint tomoro’ a long ways off I thou’t you wood be home by tomoro’
but it seems as if ther’ had bin a good many tomorows sinc’ you went
away’ Flora my dol’ has met with a axident and uncel doctor has had to
ampertate her rite leg and tak’ out her rite ey’ wich becom’ brok’
nobodi no’s how I never did care mutch for Flora so I did not even shed
a tear al’ the rest of my children ar’e doing well thank you except
jonny jump up who has the meesels and Tina’ who has slow consumson wich
uncel doctor sey will be her deth som’ day’ O mamma papa do’se not cri
so mutch as he did w’en you first went awa he used to hug me so tite he
hurt me and then he wood cri and make me feal bad to but I did not cri
for you told me I mus’ not I have been reel good wen nite comes and I go
to bed papa alwa’s tel’s Rosa he wil’ undres’ me and then we have such
fun papa and me and then he razes the blind w’en he le’ves me so I can
look at the stars in the sky for he sey the same stars ar’ shining upon
my mamma way off over the water and then I go to sleep W’en ar’ you
coming home mamma I want to see you and so doos papa for I asked him one
da’ and he sed he wood lose ha’f of his life to take your dear hands in
his I lov’ papa derely and I lov’ you and then I lov’ uncel doctor who
likes to have me cal’ him uncel for he has not got any litle gurl but me
my hare is down to my waste in long curls and Rosa scolds caus’ she has
to curl it every morning but papa makes her come home soon deerest and
most lovely mamma to papa and me I wil’ rite another leter soon from
your duty full dauter mary vale willing.”

Victoria did not read this continuously as it was written. She often
stopped to kiss some quaintly spelled word, which reminded her so much
of the writer. Her tears flowed fast as she read the words of Andrew,
which he had not dreamed his child would remember and repeat. Ah, how he
loved her, and how she loved him, even if he had sinned. He had
repented, and every day he was atoning for that sin. She kissed the
paper which she knew his lips had pressed, and folding it she placed it
in her bosom. As she did so she raised her eyes to meet those of an
elderly lady fastened in surprise and consternation upon her. The
spirited horses dashed by, and the lady had passed, but not before
Victoria had recognized her mother, who she felt sure had also
recognized her. This was something for which Victoria was totally
unprepared, and taken unawares she had allowed an exclamation of
surprise to escape from her lips, while she could almost hear the name
“Victoria,” as she saw it formed by the proud thin lips of Lady Vale as
she had passed.

Not one word had Victoria ever received from her mother since the day
upon which Lady Vale had left “The Gables.” From her guardian she had
heard twice; once to tell her that according to her father’s will, she
had forfeited all right to her marriage dower, and that in the event of
her mother’s death it would revert to Miss Dora Vale, her cousin; and
the second letter was an acknowledgement of the receipt of her letter
telling of Roger’s death, and expressing sorrow at her bereavement. That
was all. She had written to her mother several times. She knew that the
letters had been received, or they would have been returned, but Lady
Vale kept complete silence. Victoria’s last letter had been sent when
Mary was two weeks old. Her heart was so full of love; she was so proud
of her treasure, that she wanted everybody to share in her joy; and she
had thought when her mother should read that letter—which ignored the
past, and spoke only of Victoria’s happiness, and God’s goodness to
her—that her heart would soften toward her daughter, and there would be
peace between them; but Lady Vale might have been dead, so totally did
she ignore all communication from Victoria, and Andrew, thoroughly
incensed at her treatment of her only child, forbade Victoria from ever
holding any converse with her mother, even if in after years she should
wish to become reconciled. So Lady Vale’s face came upon Victoria as one
risen from the dead, and to Lady Vale the shock was the same.

“Drive home immediately,” said Victoria to the coachman, and then,
overcome by all which had transpired that day, she buried her face in
her hands and wept bitterly. She felt safe no longer. Her mother,
knowing her to be in London, would manage in some way to discover her
abiding place, and once discovered, her secret, which she was guarding
with such jealous care, would become known to all the world, and
Andrew’s life would be in danger, to say nothing of the shame and
disgrace which such a discovery would bring upon herself and Mary. For
awhile her thoughts were chaotic. Her brain refused to act, and seemed
to her to burn within her head, and she wondered if she were going mad.
Oh, for a sight of the good doctor, for a sound of his calm voice wisely
counseling her. She had not a friend in whom she could confide. Not one.
She stood as completely alone as if all belonging to her were indeed
dead.

Suddenly a ray of light came to her. This old bank clerk, if he should
prove to be her uncle, dare she trust him? Yes, she felt that she might.
Truth, fidelity, honesty, were all depicted on that sad, careworn face.
He had no doubt in his long life been the recipient of many secrets, and
the tie of blood which she felt sure she could claim would bind him to
her. Her heart felt lighter as she reasoned, her brain became more
clear, and by the time she had arrived at the little villa, she had
begun to take a calmer view of things, and had determined not to flee
from her present abode until matters had become more serious. London was
a vast city. The chances were that her mother—even if she should take
the trouble—would never find her.

At four o’clock she drove to the dingy lodging house in Depthford Road,
and bade the coachman inquire for James Vale. He gingerly mounted the
worn steps, and as gingerly rung the antiquated bell, which shook and
shivered as if with an ague fit under his savage pull. These strange
fancies of his mistress were not to his liking at all. He had lived in
high-born families, had been accustomed to driving none but titled
ladies, and these low tastes of this new mistress filled his soul with
disgust. Not once since he had been in her employ had she driven to a
fashionable house, and taken ladies like herself for a drive, but she
must needs prowl about in all the dirty back streets, picking up ragged
and deformed children to fill her carriage, which he was expected to
dust and clean after the drive; and now here was another new freak. She
had no respect for herself, and no regard for the welfare of her
servants, exposing them all to contagious disease by this wilful running
after the slums of London. He would give in his notice that very day,
and tell her that he was satisfied with his position except for one
thing. It was very humiliating to himself, and beneath the dignity of a
first-class coachman, who had never driven anything but quality, to
ringing fourth-class lodging house bells, and cleaning carriages after
the ruff-scuff of London had ridden in them. He had a deeply injured
look upon his face as he waited to assist these new people into the
carriage, but the look changed to one of surprise, as James Vale with
his little granddaughter in his arms, came down the steps with a glad
smile on his thin lips. In spite of his worn clothing, in spite of the
humble abode from which he had just issued, there was so much of the
true gentleman in his manner, that the coachman involuntarily touched
his hat and assisted him to a seat with as much grace as though the old
gentleman had been of the nobility.




                              CHAPTER IV.


Victoria greeted James Vale with a kindly smile, and looking at him
closely, she imagined she could trace a likeness in the sad, careworn
face to that of her father as she remembered it; and then she turned her
attention to little Dora, who sat upon her grandfather’s knee, silent
and shy. She was a dainty little maiden, frail as a tender flower, and
as beautiful. Her great, blue eyes gazed in wonder at all the strange
things she saw about her. Victoria longed to take the little form in her
arms; to press it tightly to her aching heart; to murmur loving words
over the soft, golden curls so much like her darling’s. She held out her
hand. “Will you not come to me, little one?” she asked in a trembling
voice so full of tears that the old man looked wonderingly at her.
“Forgive me,” she added, smiling through her tears, “forgive me for
seeming so childish, but my arms have been empty for ages it seems to
me. Little Dora resembles my baby girl so much. I think this pain at my
heart would vanish, could I feel the touch of her tiny fingers.”

James Vale without a word placed Dora in Victoria’s outstretched arms,
which clasped the child close, close to her breast, and the mother-love,
which had been starving for food, rained kisses on the sweet, upturned
face. The child was not frightened. Love begets love, and Victoria was
showering all the pent-up love of her heart on this little stranger, who
so resembled Mary, and who she also believed was of her blood.

“Boo’ful lady,” exclaimed the child, pointing at Victoria with a tiny
finger, and looking inquiringly at her grandfather. “Boo’ful lady ky.
Dodo ky, too,” and suiting the action to the word, she was about to
raise her voice in sympathy with Victoria, but James Vale, raising his
hand, said quickly: “No, no! Dora must not cry. Kiss the lady, Blossom,
and tell her you will love her; put your arms around her neck and hug
her as you do grandfather.”

Dora immediately complied, and as Victoria felt the pressure of those
baby arms, her turbulent soul became quiet; her heart felt relieved of
its pain. “What a magical healer,” she said, smiling at James Vale, who
was on the point of tears himself. And passers-by turned to look after
the open carriage, and wonder at the unusual sight of a richly-dressed
lady whose beautiful face was radiant with smiles, though tears were
coursing down her cheeks, while she held the child tightly pressed to
her, the tiny arms clasped closely about her neck.

As Victoria became calm she began to think how best to get this man’s
history; in what way to approach him so as to verify her suspicions that
he was indeed her uncle.

“You spoke of your daughter dying and leaving this little one,” she
said. “Was she a widow? You did not mention anybody else having a claim
upon little Dora beside yourself.”

James Vale’s face darkened, and a bitter expression came upon it. “She
was worse than widowed!” he exclaimed fiercely. “She was betrayed,
deceived by a villian, who drove her to her grave, who broke her
heart—curses upon him! If I should meet him I should not think it a
crime to kill him. It would be justice.”

As he paused Victoria laid her hand upon his arm. “You, too, have become
acquainted with a grief which is worse than death. Tell me your history.
I do not ask out of mere idle curiosity. I have a strong motive in
wishing to know all about you. I may be of service to you, and when you
have done with your history I will tell you mine, and a sadder one you
will say you have never heard.”

James Vale glanced at Victoria questioningly. “A stranger’s griefs and
sad reminiscences can hardly interest a lady such as you,” he said.

Victoria nodded her head. “Don’t hesitate, Mr. Vale, or if you do I will
begin your history for you. Let us say that perhaps years ago when quite
a lad you lived, moved and had your being in quite different
circumstances from those which surround you at present. In short, you
were the younger son of a titled English gentleman, and because you
chose to fall in love with a governess, and were honorable enough to
marry her, your father promptly disinherited you.”

James Vale had been regarding Victoria with mute astonishment as he
listened to her words, but as she paused he almost rose from his seat in
his excitement and exclaimed: “How did you know that? Who has been
informing you of events in my life which for years have never passed my
lips to other than my family?”

Victoria smiled and placed her hand upon that of the old man. “I will
enlighten you in good time,” she said so gravely that he was convinced
of the truth of her words. “Mr. Vale, I have a right to know your life’s
history, believe me, it is of vital interest to us both that you tell it
me.”

He hesitated no longer. “I will do as you request,” he said. “How you
became acquainted with my early life I of course know not, but you have
been informed aright. My father was Lord Arthur Vale, a proud, stern
man, not wealthy by any means, but counting birth and honor far above
all gold. I had an elder brother, Arthur, headstrong, willful, but he
was my father’s favorite because to him would fall the title and landed
estates, while to me would come only a small annuity, which had been my
mother’s, but which was at the option of my father to dispose of as he
pleased, if I in any way displeased him. In time Arthur married a
high-born lady, the Honorable Augusta Champeney. My father was delighted
with the marriage, and selected a young girl who had been one of the
bridesmaids as my future wife. Lady Anna Dunstry was her name, and she
was very pretty although shallow minded. My father told me that he
desired me to propose to this young lady, and I being already deeply in
love with a governess employed by Sir George Wilson, our nearest
neighbor, flatly refused. My father coaxed, and finally threatened, so
that becoming weary of his continual hectorings, I proposed to my love
that we go quietly up to London and be made one. At first she refused,
but I pleaded hard, urging her to consent, for I feared if my father
heard of our betrothal he would in some way separate us. At last
yielding to my prayers my fair love accompanied me to London. In two
days we returned, and with my wife clinging to my arm in mortal terror,
I sought my father’s presence. Never shall I forget his anger. He drove
us from the house with curses. In a few days he died, and I found myself
disinherited, with only fifty pounds in my pocket, and two mouths to
feed; but I was young and hopeful. I took my wife to London, and soon
found employment in a mercantile house where the work was very laborious
while the pay was correspondingly small; but we lived, and labor was
sweet to me because I was toiling for those I loved. One child after
another came to us, only to remain for a little time. That was the only
sorrow we had. Finally little Dora came and stayed. I named her after my
dear mother. Arthur often wrote to me, and at every child’s birth sent a
gift, all his slender purse could afford. When Dora came and I wrote to
him what name we had given her, Arthur was delighted and sent her a
hundred pounds. He had wanted to name his only child after our mother,
but his wife had settled upon the name of Victoria, and would not be
denied. As Dora grew she blossomed into as fair a maiden as ever lived.
She was scarcely a year old when my brother died leaving rather a
strange will. In the event of his daughter marrying against her mother’s
or guardian’s wishes, or before she reached her majority, his estates
and money were to revert to his widow, and after her death they were to
fall to Dora without restriction. A copy of the will was sent me. My
brother’s widow often came to London, but she never took the trouble to
hunt us up, or to try and heal the breach between us, and I being the
poverty stricken one, was too proud to make advances, and the thought of
my brother’s little fortune ever becoming Dora’s never entered my head,
but one day, as Dora was nearing womanhood, a white-haired man drove up
to the office where I was employed and told his errand. He was Victoria
Vale’s guardian, and he came to tell me that some day Dora might receive
what had once been intended for Victoria. She had married an American,
and had forfeited all right to her dower, and Dora was now the heiress
of Lady Vale. We were not glad, my gentle wife and I. We saw trouble in
store for all of us. In all probability Lady Vale would want Dora to
live with her, and my wife at once said: ‘We cannot part with our one
ewe lamb, James,’ and I emphatically endorsed her sentiment. In a short
time our fears were verified. Lady Vale called and desired to adopt
Dora. We declined to part with her, and Lady Vale left in anger, and has
never communicated with us since except through her lawyer. She knows of
Dora’s death. She knows that Dora left a little one, but she has never
been to see it, although, according to law it is now her heir. A mother
who could repudiate an only daughter, for the simple fault of marrying
against her wishes, could hardly be supposed to forgive those who had
opposed her as we had done. My only fear is that my little blossom will
perhaps some day fall into her clutches, and her cold, stern nature
would kill this little sensitive plant in no time. Once I thought Lady
Vale the most winsome, the most charming of women, but disappointments
have soured her, until she is no longer the same.”

The old man became silent, and gazed out over the country road they were
now driving through. Victoria had chosen this road but little used,
because here she was not likely to meet her mother, and they could drive
for miles without coming in sight of a human habitation.

“There is one thing you have not mentioned,” she said at last. “You have
not told me of Dora’s husband.”

James Vale winced. “He was not her husband,” he said sadly. “He had
another wife living when he married Dora, although at the time, of
course, she was ignorant of it. He was an artist or pretended to be. He
met Dora at a country house where she had gone to visit a school friend,
and when she returned after an absence of a few weeks, he followed close
after, and asked me for her hand. I did not like him. I told him I could
not give my only child to a stranger. He must not ask it. Dora was but a
child. He left me, apparently satisfied, but I found out, when too late,
that he filled Dora’s head with chimeral stories, and finally she came
to me, and laying her bright head on my shoulder said she could not live
if her lover was sent away, and that she would follow him; and she
reminded me of the time when her mother and I were both young; and
against my better judgment I consented, but when I saw her so happy, and
when she blessed me for acceding to her wishes, I could not regret what
I had done, though I knew it might bring her sorrow. We would not
consent to her leaving us, so they married, and Dora was like a bird
singing from morning till night. They had been married little more than
a year, and I was becoming reconciled to my son-in-law although he had
done but little toward keeping the house. He puttered a little at his
painting, with Dora hanging about him, but I never saw a completed
picture of his. Many were begun but none were ever finished. One day he
said he must go away on business, and he wanted to take Dora with him,
but her mother would not allow her to travel, for she was in very
delicate health. He went away alone and he never came back. He said he
would be gone a week. The week came and passed, still he was absent.
Dora began to fret, and begged me to go after him, for she knew he must
be either sick or dead, but as I knew not where he had gone, I could not
very well go after him. Two weeks dragged by and Dora was wild. She had
confided to me that he had asked her for some money, and she had drawn
nearly all of her marriage dower which was the one hundred pounds which
her uncle Arthur had sent me at her birth. I had immediately placed it
in bank for her, and on her marriage it had accumulated to quite a sum.
When she told me what she had done I made up my mind that we would never
see the scoundrel again. At last, after Dora had taken to her bed with a
slow fever, there came a letter from him couched in the tenderest terms
for her, but calling himself all the vile names ever heard of. ‘He was a
married man, with children. Dora was not his legal wife. He had loved
her so dearly that he had sinned to get her, but now he had wakened to
his folly, and she must forgive and forget him. The name under which he
had married her, David Griswold, was not his true name. _That_ she would
never know.’”

“Dora never rallied from that blow. She lived three years, but she took
no interest in anything going on around her. Not even the advent of
little Dora could break the apathy which bound her.”

“Have you ever heard from him since?” asked Victoria.

“Never,” replied the old man. “If I knew where he could be found I would
go to him, and slay him as I would a dog.”

Victoria clasped the child to her bosom as if she would shield her from
all harm. “That man never loved Dora,” she said, “or he could not have
left her. Poor girl. What a heritage of sorrow she leaves to this little
innocent. Mr. Vale, if you will let me, I will care for her as if she
were indeed my own. Who has a better right than I, for am I not her
kinsman? Was not my father your brother?”

James Vale did not comprehend her meaning for a moment, as she sat
smiling at him. He repeated her words slowly, and then he could not
believe them. “I only had one brother,” he said. Then the truth burst
upon him. He clasped the hands held out to him, and carried them to his
lips. “You are Victoria?” he asked.

“I am Victoria,” she answered, smiling at his evident pleasure. “Your
father disowned you because you married to please yourself. My mother
disowned me for the same reason. I have never seen her since then, until
to-day I passed her. She recognized me. I knew her at once, although she
is much changed. Uncle James, for so I may call you, I hope?” He nodded
assentingly. “I am so glad to have found you, for I need advice, good
sound advice. I am all alone here in England, except for an imbecile
invalid husband, and I must have help in my trouble. What I have to tell
must be held sacred by you. It is a terrible secret, and the keeping of
it has well nigh killed me.”

James Vale pressed Victoria’s hand in sympathy. “Rest assured my dear
niece that whatever you choose to impart to me concerning you and yours
will be held strictly inviolate.”

“I knew it,” she replied. “Your noble face inspired me with confidence
ere I knew that you were of my blood.”

Then she began the recital of her sorrow. He listened deeply interested.
She told him everything. She told him of her girlish love for Roger; of
her aversion to Andrew. Of her supposed widowhood, and of the premature
birth of a shapeless thing, which could not even be called child.

She told of Andrew’s watchful loving care, and how at last she began to
care for him, and, though loving Roger’s memory, she married Andrew who
tried faithfully to shield her from every care, and who surrounded her
with the tenderest love. She told of the birth of Mary, sweet fair and
winsome; of Andrew’s deep love for his child; of the child’s passionate
adoration for her father and there she hesitated, while her face showed
the torture which her soul was undergoing.

James Vale understood her emotion, and he stroked her hand soothingly.
“Do not tell if it pains you,” he said. “I can help you if I do not know
the circumstances.”

“No, no, you cannot,” she interrupted. “I must tell you everything. I
want your advice. You cannot give it unless you know the full facts. It
is another’s sin I must tell you of, and oh, I fear your judgment will
be harsh. That you will say things against the absent one who is not
here to plead his cause. Things which will hurt me because they are said
against him.”

“I promise to fairly judge,” replied her uncle. “I will not say anything
to wound you.”

“It is my husband, Andrew Willing, of whom I now speak,” she continued.
“Judge him as leniently as you can for he has suffered, bitterly
suffered, and every day he is expiating his sin.” Then with many
hesitations, with many tears, she unburdened her heart, and when she had
done she felt better. The load which had weighed her to the ground was
lifted, and was being born by one of her own flesh and blood. What a
blessed relief this was to Victoria, can only be devined by those who
have borne similar burdens.

James Vale was shocked, horrified at the tale. His eyes sought the dense
woods through which they were passing, so that Victoria might not see
the horror in them. He had thought that his Dora had been the most
stricken of women, but here was one whose sorrows had been legion.
Sorrows before which Dora’s wrongs sank into insignificance.

“God pity and help you!” he said, at last. “You are indeed sorely
pressed.”

“And now,” continued Victoria, “comes this new difficulty. What shall I
do if my mother should discover my hiding place which she is very likely
to do. I dare not drive every day for fear of meeting her, and the
drives are Roger’s chief pleasures. Can you advise me?”

“I see no way but for you to leave London, my dear Victoria.”

“Ah, but this home for children which is hardly in working order, and as
yet I have found no competent man to take full charge of everything. A
number have applied but some thing is the matter with all of them. Oh,
Uncle James, a thought has just come to me. Will you be my
superintendent? What a care will be taken from my shoulders if you only
will. You are just the man to fill the position.”

“It is a great responsibility, Victoria.”

“Ah, yes, but think of all the good you can do, and, besides, your
duties would not be as hard as they are now. You would be your own
master. May I ask what your salary is at present?”

“Forty pounds a quarter, Victoria. A princely salary you see.”

“Forty pounds!” she echoed. “Why, that is barely more than three pounds
a week. How do you manage to exist.”

“We did very well while my wife lived,” he answered, sadly. “She was an
excellent manager, but now it is oftentimes hard to keep the wolf from
the door. Her sickness and death was a heavy strain on my slender
purse.”

“If you will become my overseer, or, rather my general right hand man, I
will give you forty pounds weekly, and consider myself extremely
fortunate at that.”

James Vale looked at Victoria. The offer was magnificent. “It would be
robbery,” he said, quietly.

“Ah, no, dear uncle. I cannot get a competent man for less, and then
perhaps he may not prove competent. You, whom I can trust, will take the
position, I know. Then I shall feel free to leave London, possibly
England, and take up my residence in exile far from here. It is my wish.
Will you consent?”

And James Vale consented, for he saw that Victoria was in earnest, and
when the carriage drew up at his humble abode, and he alighted, with the
sleeping child in his arms, it was with the promise that he should come
to Victoria early in the morning.




                               CHAPTER V.


And so after a few days of bustle and hurry, Victoria once more took up
her wanderings. Her uncle was her constant companion, and when he bade
her adieu at the station, she felt as if everything which she had been
obliged to leave undone would be looked after as conscientiously as if
she were by his side. She had pleaded to be allowed to take Dora with
her, and James Vale consented most willingly. She needed a woman’s care,
who else could care for her as tenderly as Victoria who loved her most
dearly, and Dora clung to her new found friend as if she had discovered
in her a second mother.

Victoria had decided to visit some parts of Scotland, and having heard
much of the beauties of the Firth of Forth, she decided to go there for
a time and take up her residence at Leith; but she had not been there
long when she saw a decided change for the worse in Roger. The air did
not agree with him, so of course she must find some other place in which
the invalid could be comfortable. He always seemed better when at sea,
so she decided to try sailing for a time. A slow sailing vessel was to
start for Aberdeen in a few days, and she engaged passage for her party
on the ship. At Aberdeen she would rest for a few days until she had
determined where to go and what to do; but before the ship reached
Aberdeen she had decided. On the voyage she overheard two sailors
talking. They were evidently strangers, and were forming each other’s
acquaintance.

“Wheer do’est the hail fra’ lad?” asked one.

“Fra’ Duncausby Head, mon,” replied the other, “an’ a’ wish a’ ha’ neer
left it.”

“Duncausby Head! Duncausby Head! Wheer be thot noo? Be et far fra’
here?”

The other laughed uproarously. “Weel thou art fash, I ween. Wheer ha’
thee lived all tha’ life?”

“I’ Edinburgh,” replied the first sailor, rather testily. He did not
enjoy the teasing laugh of his companion.

“Eh, mon, tha’ should coom wi’ me ti’ my hame. I’ll be gooin’ back soon.
Theer I can be free an’ happy.”

“But wheer be it? Do goold grow on trees theer? thou art so fast ti goo
back.”

“Noo goold grows on trees anywheer’s, tha’ fule, but Duncausby Head ha’
buried treasures, an I know et. Ha’ ye neer heerd tell o’ John de Groot,
a man wi’ a nasty temper, wha’ could na’ live peaceably wi’ his seven
brothers, so he built a house wi’ eight sides till it; every side wi’
its own dure, so tha’ eight brothers could na’ quarrel one wi’ tha’
ither?”

“A tale o’ tha’ fairies,” exclaimed the listener incredulously.

“It be no idle tale I say. Coom wie me an’ I show it thee. I ha’ been in
it mony a time. It be tha’ ferryhouse wheer thee lands fra’ t’ Orkney
Isles, i’ Pentland Firth. Theer be gude fishin’ for all who may wish,
an’ I like fishin’ better nor sailin’, so I be gooin’ bock soon, an’
thee be welcome ti’ coom along wi’ me. Nae sickness ever cooms theer. We
ha’ nae docther i’ tha’ place.”

Victoria listened at first languidly to the two men’s conversation, and
then with interest. Why would not Duncausby Head be a safe retreat for
her, and healthgiving to Roger. She resolved to question this sailor at
the first opportunity. She did so, and his answers were so satisfactory
that she decided to push right on to Duncausby Head, and there abide.
Upon arriving at Aberdeen she staid long enough to get a good Scotch
woman, and traveling leisurely she at last reached the place where we
now find her, five years after leaving America.

Little Dora was now eight years old, and had grown stout and robust,
with a Scotch color in her cheeks which would have delighted her
grandfather could he have seen it. But for this child Victoria must have
gone mad. Her sweet coaxing ways kept green the heart-starving for those
it so dearly loved in old Virginia. There were days when the winds and
tempests raged about the little point; when it was not safe for man or
beast to venture out. On such days when Victoria was housed with Roger,
whose health was slowly failing, and who was pevish and sometimes ugly
in consequence, the presence of the sweet child with her wise babblings,
was like a ray of brightest sunshine to the heart-sick woman, and she
lavished all the pent-up love which had waited so long upon Dora, who
returned Victoria’s caresses a thousand fold.

As Roger grew weaker he became more exacting. He knew Victoria’s voice
and touch from any other, and if she left him for even a moment, he
would howl and beat the air with his fists until she again appeared, and
laid her hands upon him. She had sent for a physician, who told her that
no change of climate would be beneficial to the invalid. He was as well
off in one place as another. It was only a question of time.

“Only a question of time.” Those had been Dr. Harrison’s words five
years ago; still Roger was living, and how long, perhaps another five
years. Victoria can hardly be blamed for the thoughts which would come
to her. She did not wish for Roger’s death, but she wondered how long
_she_ could endure this, to her, living death. Every day the question
occurred to her, and every night when she retired she had a fear that
when the morning should dawn, it would find her insane. She felt little
Dora to be her guardian angel, and many a time after a hard battle with
Roger—who showed wonderful strength for one so weak—she would take the
child in her arms and sob her heart out on the tender little breast. Ah,
yes! She was being punished for the guilty thoughts which once had
possessed her for Andrew’s sake.

The mail came very uncertain to Duncausby Head. Sometimes for weeks
Victoria did not hear from home, but she did not rebel at that. If any
of her dear ones died she could not reach them in time to once more gaze
upon their faces. If they were ill she did not wish to know of it.
Better death and the knowledge of it, than illness with uncertainty, but
every letter brought nothing but good news. All were in the best of
health. Mary was a big girl now, and printed her letters no more. She
wrote with a bold, free hand, which told Victoria of that other hand
which had been her tutor. Nothing went on at home of the least moment
but that was told in graphic language to Victoria, who sometimes closed
her eyes and imagined herself back at “the Five Gables,” seated beside
the lake, with Andrew by her side, and Mary at her feet.

To waken from that dream so real; to waken with Roger’s wild cries
ringing in her ears, as he struggled with Adam in mad frenzy over the
bug bugging in his head; this was her trial which sometimes she bore
with resignation, and again with bitter complainings to God, asking upon
her knees if her punishment was to endure forever.

Victoria had changed, and who could wonder that she had. She was not
quite forty in years, but she felt aged to twice that number, because of
the many trials through which she had passed. Time had dealt lightly
with her beautiful hair. The same sunny sheen was upon it as in her
younger days, but the sweet laughing mouth had grown serious, while
little lines had formed around the full lips, as if they had often been
drawn with pain and suffering. But the eyes told of what Victoria had
endured more than all else about the face. A stranger, meeting her as
she was walking on the sands, would know at a glance that some great
grief had come to this woman. Some terrible agony had she passed through
which had left its imprint in the sorrowful eyes with a nameless
something in their depths hard to define but touching in the extreme.

The rough sailors and fishermen bowed before her chastened beauty, as a
devotee bows before a shrine. To them she was a ministering angel, who
had known sorrow and grief. She had come among them a stranger, but she
had soon endeared herself to every man, woman and child. Many a widow,
whose husband slept under the turbulent Firth, had cause to bless the
sweet lady whose few spoken words, and tender hand clasp, won their
hearts far more than the generous roll of bills left behind as she
departed from their homes.

Many an old decrepid whose days of usefulness were done, living in his
lonely hut, counted the hours till the fair, sad-eyed lady should come
to read or talk with him, and who never left without some substantial
reminder of her coming. There was not a man among that little community,
but what if called upon, would have cheerfully laid down his life in her
behalf, for at all times since her advent had she proved a lady
bountiful to the whole village. To her this was a restful haven, and
although separated far from those she loved, yet in the spirit she was
always with them, and they with her.

One day there came a letter from the doctor, and the news it contained
made her sorrowful for many a day. It said: “Some startling news has
come to Andrew, verified by papers and affidavits. The mulatto, who has
been Roger’s attendant, is Bella’s boy, and Andrew’s half brother; and
what is more he knows it, and has kept it to himself. The old woman who
took him away when but a little lad, told him of his parentage when on
her deathbed, and bade him seek his kindred, giving him the necessary
credentials to establish his birth without a doubt. His tongue was cut
out by a cruel overseer, for Adam was of a hot, passionate temperament,
as who could doubt, knowing his parentage, and brooding over some wrong
would have killed the overseer if he had not been caught before he had
accomplished his purpose. While Andrew was in doubt as to the best way
of bringing Roger home—after he had sufficiently recovered from the
railroad accident to be removed with safety—Adam appeared to him as he
was riding home from the plantation. By Adam’s signs Andrew soon
discovered his misfortune, and he saw how he could make good use of this
tongueless man. He immediately took him to the old monastery, and left
him to care for Roger while he hastened home, and under cover of the
night, with his own hands, arranged the book-case which stood before the
closed door leading to the gabled room. It was all easily accomplished
without suspicion, for you of course, was prostrated with grief, and
took heed of nothing; and two month’s after Roger’s supposed death,
Andrew, with the assistance of Adam, had transferred his brother from
the monastery to the gabled room. Question Adam. Tell him you know the
secret of his birth.”

It was some days ere Victoria could bring herself to question Adam. The
letter had again brought Andrew’s crime most vividly before her, and if
such a thing were possible, there seemed to have come an added sorrow
into the sad depths of her mournful eyes, but one day when Roger’s chair
had been wheeled out upon the sands, and Adam, who was a most tireless
attendant, was stretched full length beside the invalid, then did
Victoria with a tremor in her voice, tell Adam of the letter which had
come from old Virginia. He did not seem surprised but smiled and nodded
his head, while he touched the breast pocket of his coat.

“Have you something there telling who you are?” she asked.

With another smile he drew forth papers, yellow with age, and gave them
to Victoria. She perused them with bitter tears. Yes, indeed, here was
evidence in plenty, and as she finished reading she looked up to find
the mulatto’s eyes bent upon her, questioningly, and, as she thought,
pleadingly.

“Do you wish to be acknowledged as this man’s brother?” she asked,
pointing to Roger.

Adam shook his head frowning slightly, while he motioned first to
himself and then out to sea.

“Do you wish to be free?” she asked again. “Do you want your freedom
papers with plenty of money?”

This time Adam laughed and bowed, then turning to Roger he placed his
hand upon his arm and shook his head pointing to the ground solemnly,
while he looked sadly at Victoria.

“I understand,” she said, “you wish to remain with us until—until Roger
shall be laid away. Then you will, in spite of your misfortune, seek a
new land where you may find a wife perhaps?”

Here Adam gesticulated violently, pointing to Victoria, then to some
little children playing on the beach, then folding his arms he rocked
gently to and fro while a bright smile irradiated his face.

“Ah, you are already married and have children?” exclaimed Victoria,
while Adam, delighted that his mistress had understood him, knelt and
kissed the hem of her gown.

“Very well Adam, I will see that all your wishes are complied with,” she
said, gently placing her hand upon his shoulder. “You have been faithful
and devoted. For many years you have been separated from your family.
You may never find them.”

He quickly drew from his pocket another paper, and Victoria, upon
opening it, found it to be a roughly drawn affidavit, that before
Justice McEuen, Adam Spencer, bond servant of George Spencer, of
Raleigh, N. C., and Rosa Jefferson, bond servant of James Jefferson, of
Raleigh, N. C., had been made man and wife according to the laws of
North Carolina regarding the marrying of slaves.

“Is this George Spencer the master from whom you ran away?” asked
Victoria.

Adam again nodded his head.

“Would you like to have me write to him and buy you from him, and find
out if Rosa Jefferson and her children still live in Raleigh; for, of
course, your former master could claim you if you did not show freedom
papers from him.”

Adam delightedly danced upon the sands, extravagantly waving his hands
and trying vainly to articulate his pleasure at Victoria’s words, and
that same night Victoria wrote to the doctor all she had learned, and
begged him without delay to do everything necessary to free Adam.

Shortly after this another letter came, this time from James Vale, who,
yielding to her frequent pleadings, was about to take a needed and
well-deserved vacation, and would follow his letter as fast as land and
water would permit, and who would be with her ere she knew.

Victoria was glad. The kindly compassionate face of her uncle would be
most strengthening to her fast-failing courage. His wise counsel a safe
prop on which to lean. How she longed this moment for a sight of him.
Ah, she wished the letter had not come, but that he had taken her by
surprise.

The next day James Vale arrived, and Victoria had need of his
strengthening arm; his calm quiet voice; his never-failing wise
judgment, for a grim messenger had arrived before him, and had summoned
Roger to that land, where once more he should see, and the poor head
should again be made clear. He had retired apparently in no worse health
than usual, and Adam had watched beside him till he fell asleep. In the
morning when Adam awoke, surprised at not having been disturbed through
the night, as usual; he arose from his couch and approached the bed.
Roger lay with a sweet peaceful smile on his face, at rest at last.
Something in the quiet form struck a chill to Adam’s heart, and placing
his hand upon Roger’s forehead, he found it quite cold. He had gone away
forever.

When Victoria was told no gladness mingled with her grief; only a
thankfulness that at last the poor clouded brain was at rest. She did
not sorrow for him, he was infinitely better off, but she sorrowed for
the Roger of by-gone days, and for herself she wept. She went and stood
beside the silent form; she gazed at the quiet face which seemed to her
to take on the youthful look when first she had known him, and tears for
her young husband, for her first love, flowed unrestrainedly. The past
twenty years seemed but a dream. She was once more a youthful bride, and
Roger, her beloved, was again all in all to her. Raining kisses on his
peaceful face, she whispered words of love into his ears, closed
forever, and when James Vale arrived, it was to find Victoria beside the
bier of Roger, and talking to him as if he could hear and understand.
The brave woman who had suffered her trials for so many years with such
rare endurance, had at last succumbed.

Roger had been laid away for quite three weeks ere Victoria regained her
reason. At times the angel of death hovered very near, and James Vale
thought he could even hear the flutter of his wings, but to Victoria was
yet reserved, much of joy, and much of sorrow. The time had not come for
her to depart. When she had become convalescent, then, and not till
then, did James Vale tell her of another death, her mother’s. It had
come suddenly—a paralytic stroke. She died as she had lived,
unforgiving, and little Dora was heir to what was left, which had proved
but little after all had been settled.

Victoria wept for the mother who had been a loving, indulgent parent
until her child had crossed her will, and who had proved so unforgiving
to the end. The tears were more for the parent of her childhood. How
else could she mourn.

James Vale had written to America of Roger’s death. In those days news
traveled slowly, and it was fully six weeks after Victoria’s illness,
that one day, with Dora as companion, she went to visit Roger’s grave. A
rustic bench had been fashioned by one of the villagers, and presented
to Victoria, whose sorrow was respected by every rough man in the
village. She seated herself, and drew Dora to her side. The quietness of
the place soothed her, and her thoughts turned to the dear old home far,
far away. What was Mary doing at this moment, and Andrew, where was he?
Ah, if she only had wings to fly, how quickly would she traverse the
distance, and alight at the door of her home—the home where all her
great sorrows had been born, and where most exquisite joys had been
hers. Hark! She thought she heard her name breathed softly, tenderly.
Dora had heard it too, and had started from Victoria’s encircling arm.

“Cousin Victoria,” she whispered, “look there, the other side of cousin
Roger’s grave!”

Before Victoria raised her eyes she knew what she was about to behold. A
delicious tremor shook her frame. She felt as if her heart was being
drawn from her body. She lifted her trembling eyelids, and a cry burst
from her lips. Andrew, holding Mary by the hand, stood beside Roger’s
grave. His eyes were fastened upon her. His heart spoke through his
eyes. It said: “Come to me!” One hand he held outstretched.

Victoria arose. She placed her hands upon her eyes, then withdrew them.
The vision was still there. She stepped hesitatingly forward, her eyes
fixed upon Andrew; then, her form bending like a reed, swayed to and
fro, and Andrew, unloosing Mary’s clasp, sprang forward and caught the
fainting form of her who never more should leave him, in his arms.


                                 FINIS.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                   MRS. MARY J. HOLMES’ PUBLICATIONS.

                   ASHES,
                       THE SINS OF THE FATHERS,
                               A FAIR PURITAN,
                           THE HOUSE OF FIVE GABLES.


               READ THE FOLLOWING OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

The “_Bridgeport Standard_,” writing of the “Sins of the Fathers,” says:

This new work by Mrs. Holmes will, we think, continue and increase the
favorable opinions of her literary capacity made by her first book, and
the many readers of that will find the same qualities strengthened
somewhat perhaps in this. Mrs. Holmes has chosen what might be called a
“domestic theme,” for the lives and sufferings, the plots and successes,
the faults and failures of character entirely in the private sphere of
life, would bring the story within that designation. In the portrayal of
character, the weaving of plot and counter-plot, the injection of action
which awakens interest, and in the general unfolding of a tale which
keeps one reading unwearied to the end, Mrs. Holmes is surely
successful, and her rank is destined to be no mean one among the
acknowledged novelists of our time.

The “_Albany Journal_,” speaking of “Ashes,” writes:

This is a tale of a weak, frail girl, guided by her impulses, through
trouble and sorrow, until she was brought to see the folly of acting on
the spur of the moment. This book has many good points, and the author
has worked with a good purpose to good results.

  A FAIR PURITAN, by Mary Johnson Holmes, author of Ashes; The Sins of
  the Fathers, &c., &c. New York: Hurst & Co., pub.; paper, 50 cents.

This story is one of Mrs. Holmes’ best, and it will possess an
additional interest to readers in this vicinity, from the fact that the
scene is laid in Connecticut, and that Bridgeport and the surrounding
towns are a part of its stage setting. The story is well told, full of
interesting incident and analysis of character, never dropping below the
safe moral standards which Mrs. Holmes always follows, and keeping up
the interest of the reader to the end. The plot is well laid and
effectively worked out, and the details are studied with a care and
faithfulness which is characteristic of the author. It will add to her
reputation as a writer and increase the circle of her appreciative
readers.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
      spelling.
 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.